The Vermillion Crusades
by Barricade Red
Summary: 40k fan fiction. A saga of blood fueled action and rivalry within the Adeptus Astartes Chapter; Knights Vermillion. Rated M for violence and gore.
1. Chapter 1

NOTE: I do NOT claim anything related to Games Workshop and all subdivisions as my own IP. Only the characters within this fictional story. It is for the pleasure of writing it ONLY and is completely non-profit.

Enjoy.

The Vermillion Crusades.

The Scourge of Athena.

Prologue.

The bell tolled its slow melody out across the white wash city below it from high upon the cliffs. The city of Trojas sprawled out like a sea of white, a view of white stone and black timbers, clay tiled roofs and spiral staircases reaching like serpents up the towers that jutted up through the sea of buildings. The architecture of the city was different to that of the giant black cathedral that squatted on the cliff tops like an ugly beast staring down at its prey. The white beauty was all rounded market houses, life like statues of white marble that caressed the water that flowed from them and into wide pools at their feet. Grand mosaics were spread across important buildings and marking out great events in Trojas history. The winding roads were full of people, a storm of noise rising from the city to mesh with the tolling drone of the bell. Those of note and importance turned their gazes to the foreboding fane that waited them up the main road of Trojas. Men and women disengaged themselves from their leisure's and duties and made for the gigantic building, falling into step with each other, two men came together and instantly began to complain.  
"What is it this time? This is the third time this year they've rung that bloody bell" the first man said whilst brushing off his silken toga. The second regarded him from down his hooked nose, taller and vulture like in appearance, his olive skin gleamed with oils.  
"I believe they are going to call a choosing Galis, more young men to slaughter" he pursed his lips as two younger men bustled past him, fixing their toga's with bronze brooches. "I see your sons are in a hurry to rush up there"  
Galis frowned and turned a black look upon the cathedral, he smoothed back his greying hair with one hand and thrust the other into the folds of his toga. "Since they arrived the younger men of our aristocracy have taken an unhealthy obsession with the choosing. My sons are jealous of the common brutes that are chosen." He gathered the drapes and folds of his expansive clothing and threw them over his shoulder. "Well then Idrea, let us see what the Imperium wants of Athena today."

~

The huge doors of the cathedral were open when the congregation arrived, they passed under the grand archway and into the cavernous hall beyond. Giant onyx pillars rose up into the shadowed ceiling and strange statues of giants in armour lined the thick red carpet that led to the forum area. Servants ushered the nobles into the tiled area before the speaker's podium, a massive block of stone cut from the mountains around Trojas. Awaiting the group was three figures, the first was Iterator Levititus robed in flowing white and purple, the second was a man they'd seen only several times only on stately business, the Planetary Governor of Athena had made the long journey from his manor in the mountians to be here. The third man was obviously Imperial aswell, dressed in following black robes, pale skinned with a black eagle tattooed upon his forehead. Stitched on his robes was a golden eye.  
"You are gathered here today to bear witness to the herald. The Imperium expects your full attention" Levititus crooned before turning away from the group and stumbling off into the depths of the cathedral. The governor stepped forward, his purple sash hung around his generous girth. He refaced the monocle over his left eye and coughed several times from under his drooping grey moustache.  
"The Imperium has need of you once more Athenians, there is going to be some news, news which may shock you but as your Governor I expect full co-operation from you all." he cast a glance at the hooded man beside him, unease written across his fat face. "As of last night Athena is at war." He flinched at the outcry and raised voices that echoed like thunder in the vast hall.

"Calm, I say calm down!" he shouted over the angry buzz that washed over him, "I have received word from the Imperial fleet that a enemy formation has entered this system and its first port of call will be Athena." This caused more aggravation and a tall elderly man stepped forward and jabbed a finger up at the governor.  
"You mean more off worlders like you are coming? It's bad enough being at war with the rest of Athena and now we have your enemies to worry about, you people have brought us nothing but trouble." He spat at the ground before the governors feet who shuffled backwards away from the speaker. He gestured over to the far end of the cathedral and moved closer to the hooded man as two burly men marched towards the group. Both were dressed in yellow fatigues with black carapace armour over the top, they wore black helmets with thick mirrored visors that hid their faces from view. One unclipped the maul hanging at his belt and brought it smashing into the elders knee causing him to buckle. The two men dragged the sobbing elder away from the gathering and into the shadows of the cathedral.  
"I hope there will be no more incidents like that, now, to the matters at hand" the governor pulled a scroll from within his jacket and unfurled it. "No longer is recruitment for His Highness, the Emperor of Mankind's Loyal Imperial Army restricted to those of the common class. Until this declaration the ruling houses of Athena have been given lenience in accordance to Trading Guild laws, however as War has now been declared, all men of able body and age will be conscripted for a posting within the Army."

Silence met his words and left a dark note hanging in the air, the nobles had murder in their eyes. The Governor swallowed down the slab of fear in his throat, this system was tiny and far out on the eastern fringe, yet it was teeming with resources. The people that in habited these three planets held a almost an entire sectors worth of natural resource upon these planets. The governor had to establish his dominance over these people before the Mechanicum fleet arrived to begin strip mining their precious planets.

"Your compliance with the Imperial decree is admirable and to be part of the Emperors grand works everyone, even the humble, need to work together." He couldn't keep the tremble from his voice and a young noble stepped forward, the man was clean shaven and was obviously one of Trojas warriors.  
"Who's authority is this declaration penned with? We have never seen your Emperor so his words carries no sway here." He jutted his chin defiantly out at Governor and several of the other nobles stepped up behind him, murmuring their agreement. The portly Governor began to back away from the slowly advancing group, fumbling with the sabre at his side.  
"His word is the utmost authority Athenian." The voice came from the shadows of the cathedral, it was deep and sounded like a hammer striking stone. The nobles stopped advancing and began to stare about them, the outspoken youngster pushed through to the back of the group to face the new speaker.  
"And who are you to speak with such certainty? We accepted compliance with your expeditionary fleet because it seemed the right thing to do. Then you come and bring your armies and your war machines to our world." The young nobles eyes were filled with defiant pride, a spark that could turn the peaceful surface of Athena into a raging inferno of rebellion.

"I am His word made manifest, boy." The voice snarled from the dark, then the sound of metal on stone began to echo through the gloom of the hall. The Nobles threw cautious gazes around as the sound become louder and clearer, it was footsteps. The darkness shrouded the figure until he reared up like some ancient god, his massive armoured feet stomping into the stone floor, cracking the slabs beneath. The behemoth of steel and fear broke the shadows and the light from the candles threw his yellow and black armour into stark relief.

The Nobles began to scramble backwards, falling over each other to get away from this armoured giant. The young, outspoken noble was struck silent as the warrior approached him, the man's head barely coming up to the gigantic breastplate the warrior sported. He stared at the black marble fist that was embossed upon this giants armour and then let his eyes travel up to the warriors face. A puddle of liquid pooled around the nobles feet as the giant leant over him and brought the hard red lenses of his helmet close to the boys face.  
"Do you object to that?"  
The Noble fell to his knees and wept openly as the fear coursed through him. The giant sneered behind his visor and stomped past him towards the Imperial Governor who paled at the sight of the Astartes. The massive warrior snatched the Imperial decree from the man's fingers and turned away, "I expect these people to be armed and fortifications set, Governor, the World Eaters cruisers just broke through our defensive line."  
The Governor scurried away into the depths of the Cathedral as the Imperial Fist captain marched through the grand archway and out into the sun blazed vista around the meeting hall. He cast his gaze skyward to see the long dark bruises forming above the wisp of cloud cover, he followed the Stormbirds as they screamed through the air space above Trojas. He felt a tremor run down his spine as he saw the massive mechanicum loader bearing down its great cargo towards the city. He lifted his gauntlet and thumbed his vox bead.

"Brothers, remember that today we fight not for this planet, or those we have recently brought under the yoke of the Imperium, no, today we fight to stall these barbarians. We have to give Dorn the time he needs." He let out a long breath as he knew the outcome of the battle already. The hounds of Angron would reach the surface and scour it clean of every citizen or soldier. They would all die here.  
The Fist Captain had only a handful of Astartes under his command, a few heavy tanks and a Titan war machine. Even as his keen eyesight picked out likely choke points within the city he caught sight of the mighty Warlord Purgatorum being lowered down to stand like a colossus over the gates of Trojas. Impressive as it was, his brow darkened as he knew it would never be enough to stop the tide of the Red Angel. He looked out over the rolling green hills, the majestic mountain ranges, the crystal rivers and clear oceans, the perfect sky above with its soft clouds and lamented for he knew it would all come to ruin for one mans, no, one Primarchs wounded pride. He was brought out of his reverie as a sonic boom flew from the heavens and shattered every window in Trojas, he could see the dying flare of a battleship high in the heavens and the orange streaks of fire that came like arrows to the surface. The Captain closed his eyes for one moment and offered up a silent prayer to whoever would listen, he hoped he could hold them long enough. He racked the slide of his bolter and made his way down through the winding streets of the white city. The Purgatorum opened up with its inferno cannon and the battle was begun. The fight for Athena played its part in the Heresy, albeit a small one.

1

The third world in the Athena system was the theatre of a desperate battle, it had become a war zone. Violent hurricanes whipped tons of dust and ash into the air, making visibility poor. Presae was once a beautiful planet of lush forests and verdant farm lands, but over the course of ten millennia it had become a husk of ash plains and dead woodland, its inhabitants making a meagre living hauling the ash wastes for scrap to sell to the mechanicum priests that had built a massive forge complex into the northern pole of the planet. It was this reason the Tau had invaded, bringing the might of their warrior castes to Presae's surface.  
Streaks of blue snapped through the air, leaving stark after marks upon the ozone before fading. The Thunderhawk roared down towards the surface, the pilot trying his best to evade the beams of anti-air fire being hurled at his craft. The hull of the assault boat glowed as flames ravaged its paint work, its thrusters snarling at the pressure forced upon them. The pilot cursed as a red rune began to flash at him and several warning beacons wailed from the cockpit. He canted a binary code to the Adept keeping the vital systems of the Thuderhawk operational. He was going to land, but not where the Astartes wanted him to land.  
He sent a command line back through his craft to alert the warriors he carried that they should prepare. The anti-air fire coupled with the ash storms had forced him to veer far off course, they were going to smash right into the enemy trench line. He dragged at the control stick, trying to stop it skipping out of his hands. His co-pilot was furiously working the vox, patching all available lines through to the Astartes Sergeant in the crew deck. He grit his teeth together as the ash clouds cleared momentarily and the huge earth works of the enemy line rose towards them. He prayed.

The smoke and the wail of emergency systems brought his mind swimming back into consciousness. His eye sight was blurred and watery and he could taste blood in his mouth. His eyes corrected themselves soon enough but the taste of blood was still fresh and he disliked it. The pilot cast his head around to check the damage and groaned. They were nose down, the thick armour-glass shield cracked and offering a view of compacted dirt. He could hear a small fire crackling away to itself behind him and a loose cable was dancing sparks everywhere, the light illuminated his co-pilot.  
The poor man had been dashed off the view screen before him, the left half of his head caved in, blood oozing down the orange glare of the monitor. The pilot mashed his hand into the harness strapped across his chest and it released him. With trembling legs he hauled himself out of the command chair and back through the cockpit, he had to find the Adept. He grabbed a fallen locker and hauled it out of the way, revealing a tall figure in a red robe casually assessing the damage in the passage beyond.

"Rozak! How's my ship?" he barked at the Mechanicum Adept whilst rummaging for the fire extinguisher. The gaunt featured Adept lifted his face beneath his robe and regarded the Pilot with red glass eyes, one of his mechadendrites slithered from beneath his robe and sprayed a jet of foam over the compartment fire, dousing it in seconds. Dull thuds and the scream of energy weapon fire echoed off the hull, filling the inside of the downed gunship with noise.  
"Salvageable, if the Astartes can prevent the Xeno's from destroying it. The machine spirit is displeased by the way you have treated it." His dull drone added to the growing buzz of noise. The pilot pulled a face and turned his back on the Adept, the Spirit be damned, he was more concerned whether the Thunderhawk was still flight worthy. He threw himself back into his seat and thumbed the vox rune. A hiss of static later and the line was open, albeit cut through with interference.  
"Dropping bay doors, my lord, may the Emperor watch over you."

~

The giant armoured figure of Brother-Sergeant Tiberius rose to his feet, his armour plates locking into place. His breathing misted the inside of his visor as he looked around the crew bay at his Astartes scouts picking themselves up from the floor. The Thunderhawk had smashed into the ground and threw them like rag dolls against the walls. The craft was at a tilt and the assault ramp would bring them out into mid air. He had been prepared for a clean landing behind the Imperial line, but the Emperors luck had been elsewhere this day.  
The red and black armoured figure strode amongst his initiates, making sure each of them were combat efficient. One student had a deep gash across his forehead, the skin peeled back to reveal bone yet he clutched his shotgun and kept an eagerness in his eyes. Tiberius, once confident on his protégé's turned to the matter of his own self. Striding back over to his harness he grabbed the large baroque bolter stashed above his seat, he slung it over one of his huge shoulder pads. He turned to the next item beside his harness and unhooked it from its magnetic mounts, he hefted the massive combat shield and made sure the adamantium straps held it fast to his right forearm. He made sure his long sword was secure in the scabbard at his side and proceeded to check the seals on his armour.

A voice cracked in his ear, alerting him that the pilot was lowering the assault ramps. His thick lips parted beneath his black and red helmet, baring teeth to the inside of his faceplate. He had been waiting for this moment, the chance to prove to the Chapter that his initiates had what it took to become fully fledged Astartes. The ramp slammed open and baleful light poured in with a cloud of ash, the scouts fixed breathing masks. Tiberius un-slung his bolter, clutching the Godwyn pattern gun by its thick handle and took a step off the ramp.  
He came crashing down on top of one of the Tau pathfinders who was investigating the downed vessel. He heard the crunch it made beneath his several tonne bodyweight and smirked, pulse fire ripping holes into the earth trenches around him. He raised his massive calibre weapon and squeezed the trigger sending two of the bolt rounds screaming through the air on tails of smoke. They punched into the nearest pathfinder and detonated within him, sending ragged chunks of flesh and torso in a wide arc. He could hear the crack of shotguns behind him and the thud of bolter fire and knew his initiates were getting stuck into the fray. He checked for another target when a streak of blue flashed past his vision, his heat sensors flashing red at him. He wheeled round to face his target, stamping craters into the ground under his feet. A pathfinder tried to lunge past him to reach the open end of the trench but he smashed his combat shield into its frail body, sending it crashing to the ground.  
The Tau groaned, its suits systems informing him of his broken ribs and certain system malfunctions. The blue skinned creature began to pick itself up from the ground when a shadow blotted out what light was left in the sky, the Tau raised its head.

The Space Marine stood above it, staring down with its hateful eyes, the Tau had no fear of the warrior, only disappointment that the humans could not see what the Greater Good meant. The giant above him wore over thick plates of interlocking ceramite, reminiscent to the knights of old Terran lore. It bore a huge shield and a sword as long as the Tau itself, its helmet was unlike the others he'd seen before, it was flat faced with numerous breathing holes and a thin slit for a visor. It's shoulder plates were larger and composed of several different layers, its gorget coming high up its front to offer full protection. It sacrificed speed and movement for being almost impenetrable. However, the most important thing the Tau noticed was the dark circle puffing steam above him and the massive bulk of the gun it belonged to. There was a thunderclap and the Tau's world exploded all over the Astartes feet. 


	2. Chapter 2

The silence would have been unbearable if there was anyone to hear it. The darkness would have fooled the mind into thinking the eyes were blind, unable to see what terrors reside within the pitch black. There was someone in that darkness, but they couldn't hear and they couldn't see, all they could do was dream. All they had been doing was dreaming, constant, unaware of reality. Their reality was the dream, the ever changing, constant dream.

He could hear and he could see. He stood atop the grassy knoll gazing down across his fields of wheat and the grazing grox. He could see the huge diesel harvester crawling through his land, bringing in the years crops to provide for the family. He felt on top of the world, as though he was above the law and decrees of the Governor himself. He felt unique for that moment, he felt as though he could reach out and remould the mountains in the distance with his hand.

His skin tingled as he felt familiar hands snake around his waist and play under his shirt, trailing their fingertips along his stomach. He took a deep breath and knew it to be his wife; he smiled widely and turned in her arms to return the intimacy. She was beautiful; he had thanked the Emperor every day for delivering her to him, fifteen harvests past. Her ocean blue eyes set into her heart shaped face, framed by her curled golden locks; he wanted nothing more than just her.

As she began to speak, her words trailed into strange manifestations, numbers began to materialize upon her soft red lips and crack and shiver into the air, jumping and surrounded in static. Confusion and repulsion coursed through his veins and he tried to pull away from her, but she gripped him tight crushing into his sides. He screamed in pain as the numbers flowed freely from her mouth, an eerie, howling wail followed each flickering code piece. Then he lost consciousness.

'Ardakas, is he functional?'

The words thundered into his ears, ripping his soul apart and he screamed, silently. He was becoming aware. There were no numbers, no grass, no mountains. His wife had gone, swirled into smoke and forced to the back of his memory. The voice sounded like it could have been the God-Emperor himself, it was like thunder, boiling seas and cracking the earth with each word. The earth and seas that did not exist in the blackness he was encased within.

'He is operating at seventy four percent, his primary systems are all passing minimal parameters and the rest of his functional systems shall come online once he is booted into full sentiency, the Omnissiah permitting. '

The second voice brought numbers flashing violently through the darkness. Lines of ones and zeroes, green and black, slashing into his consciousness like a hot knife. He screamed again. This time the numbers became angry and red and a buzzing filled his head, so loud it was almost unrecognisable as noise. It pounded his skull into mush and reformed it, he felt his body become warm and he felt shocks of electricity force their way into his vital areas. It was the most uncomfortable experience in his life. His life? He wasn't aware he had one, yet he knew he existed before this darkness. He was aware.

'Is he able to sense me? Hear what I say?'

The darkness glowed, light seemed to come from everywhere until he was blinded by the radiance of truth, of awareness. He came to full consciousness and began to thrash, his mind reworking itself, power and numbers forcing their way into his mind, his eyesight, his hearing. Changing everything with their horrible buzzing movements. Then it was over, he could see but it was blurred, vague shapes, some square, some circular were pressed right into his face. He could hear beeps and clicks, whirring and strange noises like hissing and gargling. He blinked and was relieved, he wasn't aware, he was alive.

'He is now operating at ninety-four percent and maintaining spacial awareness. Secondary systems are operating at above level grades and his primary functions have reached optimal efficiency. He is now aware.'

Flashes of anger and pain blared into his mind as he tried to focus on the voices, the whirring became louder and more hurried and then his vision began to focus. He was inside something, something small and he was floating. He was only now realising he was suspended in thick viscous liquid, clear and sticky. He tired to flounder but he could not feel his arms or legs. He moved his eyes down but was awarded a sight not of his own body. His vision crackled and fizzed like a data recording, static lines hazarded through his vision and he could make out two figures, giants of men.

The first was a daemon from his ever shifting dreams, a steel golem with spiders arms coming from his back, cutting and prodding, tearing and twisting. His face was hidden by a series of flashing lenses, shutters reacting to every movement of his helmeted head. There was something wrong about him, the way his body was hidden beneath a robe of steel links, coloured red.

The second was even more imposing, a black giant, encased in massive plates of rounded ceramite thicker than a man's chest. He towered over the red one, his black armour adorned with stamps and scrolls, reels of parchment as long as a man's arm. What drew the fear from him was the giants head, no helmet, no face, just a skull with burning red eyes that seemed to pierce his soul.

Then the giant strode forward, his bulk stomping along the permacrete floor beneath him and it was then that he realised. He tried to laugh at this man who came towards him, this skull faced giant, he, who had been shut in darkness and silence for so long was in fact the giant. He towered above them, rising up to stare down, the sound of cogs and chains, pumps and pistons roaring through his mind as he became fully aware of just how much control he had over himself. He was free from the darkness and he was a god.

'Brother Typhot. Welcome back to the brotherhood. May you serve Him, forever.'


	3. Chapter 3

The vox link fizzed and crackled with static and laughter, screeching into every initiates ear. Two of the Initiates shared a glance, blue flashes illuminating their sombre features. Scaran, with his wounded face and Gelus, the squads only flamer, moved forward through the earth works. Their vermillion body gloves and black carapace armour were heavy with mud and gore, the scouts shotguns made short work of chewing the Tau's strange plastech armour to shreds. The battle upon the surface of Presea was quickly becoming stagnant and something needed to be done to spark a fire beneath the rear quarters of the Guard general. The 130th Athenian Rifles were being bogged down by Tau artillery fire and men were being slaughtered like fish in a barrel as the alien weapons gouged into the trench lines. The Tau had given no warning to their vicious assault, bombarding Presea's capital from orbit to eliminate the PDF stationed there. Then the cursed xeno's descended upon the vast ash plains south of the Mechanicum forge, engaged the Adeptus forces and began to blast holes all over the ragged defence lines, searching for something.

Lasfire streaked overhead or pummelled into the trench tops, fusing the ground, the exchange between the Imperial forces and the Tau was a brutal one. The laughter had been chopping through their vox contact for several minutes now and it was beaded from Sergeant Tiberius. The initiates had only been with the Chapter for two decades but it was obvious to all why Tiberius was in charge of the forward scout elements, he was insane. One of the older brothers had told them one day aboard the Dominator that the Sergeant was the lone survivor from a squad that was ambushed on a routine scouting patrol of a chapter recruiting world. To this day, he hasn't spoken of what occurred to any of his brothers and the Chapter masters were satisfied with whatever explanation he had given them.

Their vow of silence was not to be broken, even this far out away from the Dominator's ever watching Chaplaincy. Scaran switched his vox off and hefted his shotgun, pumping a round into the wide chamber. He swung into the next concrete foxhole that had been sunk and built into the trench wall, he saw a slight flicker in the dark and squeezed the trigger. His massive gun barked into the fox hole, the flash of muzzle flare illuminating the Pathfinder as it sprayed across the wall. The noise rang out in echoes, alerting the scouts that this fox hole ran deeper than first thought. Scaran signalled for Gelus to move up and he pressed his bulk against the side of the tunnel. Gelus squeezed past, both scouts had barely enough room to move, these tunnels were made for mortal men. Gelus hefted his promethium thrower, the nozzle dripping the thick black liquid onto the mud beneath his feet, he flicked the dial on the main body of the gun and the tip of the weapon flared into life, the igniters tip a blue glare in the pale light offered by the lumen strips along the walls.

This had been the Imperials front line, a maze of trenches and gun nests. The tau had forced the Imperial guard back several hundred meters with sustained bombardment and now the xeno's were looking for something. Their scouting elements crawled through the Imperial fortifications, under sustained shelling from the new Guard lines. The Knights Vermillion would never have intervened in the war, foot slogging and trench warfare unsuited to the strike forces of the Vermillion crusade. Yet, a vox communiqué one of the cogitators had intercepted highlighted that the xeno's were blasting into the ground directly beneath the Imperial shrine set into the trench line, they were mining for something.

Scaran checked his auspex unit and gestured for Gelus to continue on, they were to locate the Tau Fire-warriors and eliminate the head of this alien sortie.

It had been rumoured that once this operation had been executed, they would receive their Swords, if that were truth and not spectacle, then they would become full fledged brothers of the Crusade. The tunnel before them sloped down towards the shrine room where the Guard companies preacher would bless the men before battle or offer up prayer to the Emperor. Scaran's auspex chimed into the gloom, the scouts gloved fingers punched at the rune keys and displayed several life signs detected up ahead. He grabbed Gelus curved shoulder guard and showed him the display, their faces cast in the green glow.

The second scout nodded and crouched even lower into the tunnel, he eased along the mud and flak-board wall until he came upon the entrance to the shrine room.

Scarans auspex indicated that four Tau were within, one guarding the door as the others milled around a hole in the earthen floor. Gelus dropped to his knees and swung his flamer into the doorway, his finger tugged on the firing trigger and the nozzle sucked at the air. Then like the breath of some great dragon, the blazing flame spewed from the flamer, dousing the room in liquid fire. He scrunched his eyes closed at the heat blast then squeezed the trigger again, sending another roiling cloud of hot death into the shrine room. The holy relics within would be cleansed of the Aliens filth by the holy flame, or so he assumed. Scaran ducked into the room and unloaded his shotgun onto the one solitary figure stumbling around the shrine. The Tau's helmet had fused into place from the heat and the creature was attempting to remove it when the gun blast tore his lightly armoured form to pieces.

Gelus entered into the shrine room behind Scaran and lifted one of the burning corpses with his foot, melting plastech armour sticking to the fabric of his boot. He noted the Fire caste symbol upon the charred armour and shoved it away with a kick. He tapped his vox link, sending an affirmative in code to the Sergeant. They had secured the tunnel entrance. Scaran was knelt by the wide hole in the floor, the mud had been made smooth almost like glass by something of extreme heat.

++ I've got a lock on your position, stay there and we shall be with you in a moment, child. ++

The snarl of Tiberius voice crackled over Gelus vox unit. He signalled to Scaran everything was on the positive and took up a defensive position by the door, covering the tunnel with the bright glare from his flamer unit, the igniters blazing angrily at the nozzle, hungry for more promethium.

At the other end of the tunnel, the giant Astartes thudded back into the trench, crushing the flak board planks lining the mud. He spun his combat shield round and took a blue bolt upon its scarred face, the energy flaring his heat sensors. He swung his body round the shield and squeezed the trigger on his Bolter, sending one of the rocket projectiles screaming through the air towards his attacker. The bolt struck with impossible accuracy and blew the Tau to ragged chunks, its torn corpse dripping down the trench wall. Three scouts dropped down behind him, all slamming new rounds into the chambers of their shotguns.

Tiberius had created a distraction so his chosen 'sons' could root out the target entrance. His 'distraction' had been finding the position the enemies transport ship was grounded at and assault it head on.

The Tau's superior marksmanship had counted for nothing when Tiberius came sprinting towards them, snarling with the Emperors name upon his lips, his shield held to the fore. His scouts had flanked the devil-fish, bringing their high calibre fire to bare upon the Tau's undefended rear. It was a massacre.

The Tau had managed to send off a distress call before the last Pathfinder fell and Tiberius had seen another two transports speeding across the ash wastes through the storm, unmistakeable forms of battle suits jumping and streaking between them. He'd stirred up the hornets' nest.

He came to the tunnel entrance, knowing the Tau would reach the smoking wreck of the devil-fish in moments. He tapped his gauntleted fingertip to his vox unit and sent a message direct to the Guard command.

++ You may start the charge, General. You have Tau incoming. ++

The veteran sergeant ushered his scouts into the tunnel before him, patting each one upon a curved shoulder plate. He viewed these silent killers as his children, remembering back to his own time of the Silent Vow. He took one last look around the trench, his port cullis visor an unreadable mask of iron that hid the smile beneath. Then he ducked into the tunnel, his shield tilted to compensate for the width of the fox hole. He cursed under his breath, snarling and hauling his bulk forward, barging his way down the tunnel behind his scouts, mud and rocks showering him from above as he strained the tunnel supports.

Upon reaching the shrine room he was near crawling, the scouts formed a circle around the mined tunnel in the floor and he shifted his form forward, gripped the edge of the tunnel and swung his massive form down the hole.

His feet crunched down onto the surface below after his plummet through the darkness, the unmistakeable sound of ceramite striking metal ringing out in the darkness. Confusion flashed through his mind before he dropped to one knee and brought his Bolter up to scan the darkness before him, his helmet automatically switching to night vision. He picked out the green outlines in the static black and grey, it appeared he was in a corridor of some sort.

He stood up and swept forward, hearing his scouts rappelling down the tunnel behind him, his heavy shod feet thundering across the metal grilling beneath him. It took him several moments to register the naval insignia before him stamped upon an overhanging support beam, he was aboard a ship and more importantly, in the middle of a cross way. Tiberius jabbed his vox and growled an order to his squad.

++ Spread pattern Omega, by twos. I want these fiends found quickly and neutralised. Leave the leader alive for me. ++

He jabbed Scaran in the chest and signed that he was to follow Tiberius. The rest of them spread out and headed through the ship, their vox units on constant link to Tiberius. The veteran sergeant flicked his eyes to the bottom left corner of his visor and dragged them back to the centre, the squads vital signs superimposing themselves over his night vision. He took the right passage, Scaran following behind with his auspex unit held out in front of him.

Tiberius tracked the darkness ahead of him with his huge weapon, the servo's in his heavy armour whirring and clicking with each sweep of his arm.

His shield came before him, the symbol of the Knights Vermillion facing the pitch before them, the armoured fist clutching the broken sword.

A small blip of static appeared in the dark of his visor and he swung his shield up. The rail round slammed into his shield, kicking a dent into its thick plating that almost pierced the other side. Scaran dived sideways into a dirt filled doorway, pressing into the frame. He slung his auspex and pumped a round down the hallway, the blast of his shotgun deafening. Tiberius followed his scouts shot with two rounds from his bolter, a double squeeze sent the rockets screaming down the hallway to explode at the far end. His night vision flared, corona's of light glared into his eyesight for a second before his sight corrected the hindrance. He could see the crumpled form of the Tau in the distance and he began to stomp towards it, Scaran pressed to his right flank, his shield held to the left.

There was two confirmed kills, the shotgun blast had peppered the first Tau, the bolts had blown the second to steaming chunks. He could hear the sound of their hoof like boots upon the metal grating beyond and spotted a sharp turn in the hallway. He slung his Bolter, the gun clacking against his mail robe, his hand instead went to the grenade dispenser upon his belt. He thumbed a frag round into his palm and jabbed the detonator and hurled it towards the doorway. It bounced off the frame and into the next hallway, he heard an synthesised alien voice shriek and then the crump of the grenade exploding.

He was on the move again, rounding into the hallway and sprinting forward, Scaran at his heels. His hand found his vox unit before he snatched up his bolter once more.

++ To me my children, I have found the enemy, converge on my position and follow the corpses! ++

The grenade had claimed two more Fire warriors, a third lay against the bulkhead, vomiting blood from his shattered helmet. Tiberius stamped upon his brethren and continued on down the hallway, the massive warrior oblivious to the creature.

The second one however, was not. Scaran took two steps to stand in front of the Tau, his hate filled eyes staring down.

The xenos raised its head, one of its three fingers hands coming up in front of it in a feeble attempt to stay the Astartes wrath. The alien could see the terrifying glint in the human-creatures eyes, the eagerness it barely held in check with the prospect of killing the Tau. Such barbarism, such racist hatred etched across its blood stained features. The thing that drew the fear from the Tau however was the mouth, the open sneer and the two long fangs that gleamed in the Tau's helmet viewer. These truly were beasts that the Imperium unleashed upon them.

Scaran raised the shotgun slowly, pumping a fresh round into the firing chamber. He shoved the stock in the crook of his shoulder and raised the gun in a diagonal line from his chest to the aliens face. He grinned and allowed the creature to revel in its death before his index finger tugged the trigger. The back splash of gore from the aliens brutal death hit him, watery blue blood touching his lips. The taste of it awoke something inside, something that burned at the pit of his stomach, turning his throat to fire. That something was a hunger. He grimaced, spat onto the decking, the acid spittle fizzling away at the metal.

Then he was off, sprinting down the hallway after Tiberius.


	4. Chapter 4

The Dominator was a behemoth to behold in the upper atmosphere of Lexmar Prime, its gargantuan form resplendent with gargoyles and crenulated buttresses surrounding each massive gun. Bright flashes streaked from lance batteries, stabbing out into the swarm of smaller ships that plagued the giant Imperial cruiser. Plasma bursts wracked the skies as the rebel cutters and cruisers died in the hail of punishment the Dominator directed around itself. No tear was shed from these dissidents for while they died in space, they died upon the planet's surface. The Knights Vermillion Strike Fortress had received a distress signal that was months old as they passed the outskirts of the Tau Empire on their way home to the Armacian system. The chapter had been carving a path through the stars to reach their fortress upon the planet Armacia and to induct the 'fresh' recruits into the training grounds upon Athena, this distress signal placed a temporary hold upon that homeward journey.

The Imperial Governor had been slain, his staff ousted and his armies turned traitor. They slaughtered the population for some romantic notion of freedom from the Imperial yoke. This could not go unpunished, the Astartes would see to that.

The bolt round exploded after boring into the permacrete wall, sending shards of razor rock to shred into the fleeing guardsmen. The Astartes advanced in perfect unity, their giant armour shod feet crushing the enemy beneath with no remorse. The Space Marines had made planet fall an hour prior to this point, smashing into the complacent ranks of the rebel armies. The Red Death himself leading the charge, spearheading the assault straight towards the Governors palace. Brother Virgil kept rank with his brothers, pumping round after round into the routed guardsmen, watching men burst like over ripe fruit as the mass reactive shells detonated inside them. He was truly humbled by the instrument he carried, the righteousness of its mechanics. It spared no mercy for those who come under its gaze, cleansing them in pain and death. Virgil's suit flashed up a red warning rune and a nasal whine filled his ears, he brought his head down to search for the indicated threat and saw the imminent danger.

One of the rebel guards, his pale face splashed with his own blood was grinning up at the Space Marine with defiance upon his lips. The man's body had been shorn from his legs by a bolt round, an unlucky hit for the Astartes who had fired the shot. The guard clutched something to his chest, something which made Virgil's eyes widen and break rank, diving upon the brother closest to him and forcing him down into the mass of bodies and rubble.

'Down brothers! Pray to the earth!'

The Krak missile detonated almost a fraction of a second later, the Guardsman tearing out the internal wiring and overloading it, he was vaporised by the initial explosion but the Marines felt the force of the anti-armour round in such close proximity to it. Two brothers of five man squad were downed, the first having the razor tipped armour piercing shot flash through his breast plate and make a mess of his insides, the second suffered a critical overload in his power pack , the anti armour shot shredding the internals in his bulky power station, the thermal coils inside exploded outwards in a sphere of blinding white. All that was left of Brother Optis was the lower half of his torso and his legs, the remains crashing into the rubble beneath with a clang.

Virgil forced himself up from the Marine beneath him, checking the read outs upon his visor, he had sustained minimal damage across 70% of his armour and one critical area upon his lower back, his body had already began to clot the wound and pump pain suppressors into his system. Then beneath the super imposed read out he noticed the colour of the Marines armour he'd saved. His throat tightened and he threw his arm down in offering to the Astarte.

A taloned gauntlet snapped shut around his forearm and the Marine hauled himself up along Brother Virgil until he was towering above the Tactical Astarte.

Virgil dropped to one knee, his suits servo's protesting at the sudden movement, he placed his right hand upon the pommel of his combat blade and his left hand made a fist over his hearts.

'I thank you, young Virgil. Rise and continue upon this quest.'

Virgil rose unsteadily back onto his feet and nodded his head, struck silent by the figure before him. He un-slung his Godwynn bolter and rushed forward to rejoin the fight. A pair of red glass eyelets regarded the Astarte as he moved off through the carrior field before them, the Marines black and vermillion armour stained with smoke and blood, his chainmail tabard matted with gore. Chaplain Grakar turned a lip in disgust at the scene surrounding him, bringing one of his beautifully tooled greaves down to crush a traitors head beneath his boot. Two brothers had been claimed this day, this could not be forgiven. The black armoured giant clutched at a bound leather tome chained to his belt, with taloned fingers he wrenched it from his waist, the length of chain unravelling. He found the vellum page he'd marked with a velvet sash and with a thought logged his vox sign into every brother participating in this battle. His voice snarled out inside his helmet and along the vox lines, echoed by the scream of bolters and roar of chain blades.

++ Brothers! Harken to my voice! ++

He knelt beside the dead Marine, wiping gore from the artifice'd name plaque upon his breastplate.

++ Brother Optio and Brother Vernis shall forever be remembered. These mighty warriors have fallen to the enemies foul and wicked trickeries. This must, be, avenged! ++

The chaplain rose, taking a adamantine quill from his belt to dip into one of the fallen Brothers many wounds. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to the Almighty, then reverently penned the deads names within the tome.

++ A great sadness takes me as I see what has befallen His most beloved. Our blood has been spilt by the unworthy, My lord, if you are harken to my words, name a price for their vengeance. ++

A long static fizzed and crackled across the vox lines, gunfire, hammering blows from explosions and screams mashed into one cacophony of war. Then one word was spoken, the voice was like the dread lord himself had clawed through the warp to snarl at them.

++ Blood. ++

Grakar rose from his knee's, the word sending shivers of familiarity through his soul. The Chaplain slung the tome back to his belt and popped the clasps upon his helmet, pulling the skull motif helm from his face. His skin was grey, the veins showing indigo through his waxen complexion, a pair of crimson eyes took in the battlefield around him, the shattered buildings and broken bodies. He lifted both of his taloned gauntlets skyward, framing the giant shadow of the Dominator through the cloud banks. He opened his mouth, two ivory fangs glinting in the fires of war.

++ You heard your master, unleash your fury, stain the ground with their life and harvest their souls for the Emperor. Feed my brethren, feed! ++

Then death descended upon Lexmar Prime. A storm of blood and frenzy, the towering Astartes gorging themselves upon the traitors of mankind, slipping slowly into oblivion as they rent and gored the turncoat population of this doomed planet.


	5. Chapter 5

Ardakas, Forge Master to the Knights Vermillion tapped his fingers impatiently upon the adamantium shell of the dreadnought sarcophagus. The progression had been slow, the predicted numbers falling short, he concluded the Omnissiah was not smiling upon him this day. He lifted his heavily augmented helm and stared into the visor panel of the mighty war machine before him, making sure all the optic sensors focused upon him. His fingers worked deftly along the data-pad he clutched in his other hand, small dendrites flickering out and engaging ports along its side. His servo-harness was on the constant move, picking, twisting, tightening and tugging at various nodes and fixtures beneath the Dreadnoughts armour plating.

'Now, tell me Typhot. What are the fundamental cores to your creation? Why have we chosen to ensnare you from the clutches of death?'

He was loathe to hear the answer again but he would prevail, he would find the area of damaged tissue that was causing such a reaction and replace it with synthetics. Maybe it would stop this childish nonsense.

+ We were not created, We have existed since before time itself was born into this universe. +

Ardakas canted a burst of binary which caused the tech-priests around him to flinch at its crude usage. This was not progress, this was failure, something had happened to Brother Typhots mental stability in the transference with the sarcophagus. At first, his prophetic dooms and words had caused the Master Chaplain no end of frustration, it was believed Typhot had suffered possession from a daemon of some sort. A scrying took place and it had made Ardakas bionics itch, to have anything of psychic presence, whether it was used to root out pysker powers or not unnerved him. Yet, he was clean from any taint and his words had become more cryptic the more the Chaplains had persisted.

So it fell to Ardakas to indentify the problem and correct it, a duty he was not too keen on performing.

'No, you were created, biological and chemical reactions stimulated by physical intercourse brought your existence into being, then through evolution and the power of initiative and imagination you prospered and grew, then once again, chemistry and bio-engineering were employed to turn you into a genetically superior warrior with beyond natural abilities and skills. You are fundamentally human and have been constructed into a living weapon. That is what you are Typhot, nothing more, nothing less.'

He erased the last set of runes that flashed upon his data-pad, he was getting closer, his attachments had detected some unusual brainwave energy, his beta wave frequencies were off the chart. Ardakas flicked his eyes up to stare into the sensor nodes of Typhot once more, perched upon the giant war machines front like an imp astride a giant.

+ Your theories are incorrect, you have imprisoned us inside this chamber and subjected us to pain and agonies your kind will never feel. We exist, We always have. +

Something spiked on Ardakas' data-pad and he jabbed a finger into one of the runes, highlighting the read out and super imposing it onto his own vision. He studied the numbers and graphics his equipment was giving him and it made no sense. It was telling him that nothing was wrong, the beta waves had suddenly ceased their irregularities and the genetic structure of his brain tissue was perfectly intact, except for the damage sustained pre-insertion into the sarcophagus. In fact, it was telling him the was nothing, all brain activity had ceased, all life support systems were no longer operational. Typhot was dead.

Ardakas cursed and slammed his data-pad down onto the ceramite and adamantine carapace of the Dreadnought beneath him.

He checked his readings once more and it seemed that the Astartes within could not take the mental and physical strain of interment. He jabbed one of his servo-arms at a passing Priest.

'Prepare the mortuaria and alert Adept Liksa I will be needing her to fire the incinerator. Send for Master Alabaster, he should be made aware of the developments.'

He patted the stationary machine beneath him, creasing his brow beneath his helm.

'Tis a shame to lose one such as you Honoured Brother Typhot, I was rather fond of you before your interment and I lament your passing was unkind upon your mind and soul. Rest at his right hand, Typhot.'

He unhooked his data-pad and released his mechadendrites from the various ports along the sarcophagus. He turned to leap down from the giant war machine, already setting his minds to other more practical tasks when pain exploded into his system. A crushing force that shocked his systems more than anything ever had done clamped around his right arm, obliterating it into a mangled wreck of pulp and shattered ceramite. The crash and squealing tear of metal erupted around the mech-bay and all action ceased. Ardakas swung his head round to see his attacker and felt something he never felt before, it tasted bitter in his mouth. He felt fear.

The dreadnought had risen up upon its hip mounted servo units and brought its gigantic siege claw round to pin the Forge Master in place, ruining his arm and rendering him useless and stunned. All the sensor arrays upon the sarcophagus had gone from their dull forest green to a searing, angry red. Arcs of energy played about the war machines surface, leaps and bounds of crackling fire scoured sigils and symbols into the ceramite. One tendril touched Ardakas destroyed limb and he felt a coldness wash over him, like he'd just been suspended in freezing cold water. He knew what this was.

The mighty dreadnought rose up, stomping into a standing position, Ardakas dangling from its claw. The giant machine tore itself free of its bindings and restraints, the metre thick servo arms holding it down buckled and crumpled.

All Ardakas was thankful for was that he had not installed the blessed Assault Cannon's rotary functions or firing controls yet, but still this was a truly devastating disaster. He screamed in code as he was dragged upwards, kicking and swiping in a futile attempt to free himself. He came face to sensor with the dreadnought and recoiled at what he saw, the sensor bank was wreathed in a wall of blue and white flame, ice began to freeze over the adamantine casing and hoarfrost speckled Ardakas own armour.

+ Why do you insist on calling us Typhot. That is not our name. +

Ardakas released the servo-joints upon his shoulder of all power and the sheer weight of his armoured body, resplendent with its harness tore him from the remains of his ruined limb. He could feel his body trying to keep him conscious and he stared up at the war machine towering above him, halo's of blue and white energy leaping around it, touching mechanical systems and overloading them. He could feel the cold radiating from within the sarcophagus. A terrible dawning came upon the Forge Master in that moment.

There was a psyker within the Knights Vermillion.


	6. Chapter 6

Scaran was hard pressed to keep up with his Brother-sergeant, his breath coming in controlled bursts from his lungs, his knee's burning with the push of adrenaline. A twisted corpse sped away behind them in the corridor, a smoking crater punched right through its chest. Scaran checked the small digit-counter on the side of his shotgun, four rounds left. His eyes flicked up to see the bulk of Tiberius dart around a corner ahead of him, suddenly he was superimposed upon the metal walls of the star ship, the bark of his bolter spitting death at whatever foe he'd encountered. The scout skidded round the corner and came to a crouch behind his masters armour, risking a quick glance around the side of the large combat shield. Streaks of blue light speared towards them, erupting in sparks and dizzying blue flame off the surface of the shield. Scaran grabbed the sling his auspex was on and dragged it round into his hand, he consulted the numbers and thermal imaging.

He raised it to Tiberius who cast it a glance and then hefted his shield, sending another bolt soaring down the tunnel, he was rewarded with a crumped explosion and a synthesised scream. One less line of gunfire howled down the corridor at them. Scaran couldn't help the feral grin that flickered across his blunt features, his dark eyes, his cracked lips and hooked nose all reflecting the glare of the auspex. He could see his brother-initiates on an intercept course towards the xeno's at the end of the corridor. He couldn't determine how but they were going to turn this situation in their favour. He heard the thud and scrape of metal and lifted his face to see Tiberius torso smouldering, a hole punched clean through his combat shield and into his breastplate. His chest tightened momentarily, apprehensive that his master had come under serious harm, but Tiberius merely grunted and slammed the muzzle of his bolter into the hole and unleashed a hail of rockets at the foe.

Scarans eyes were fiercely fighting to compensate for the strobe effect of the bolter flare and rail rounds. The noise was deafening and dirt rained down through cracks in the hull plating or through broken doors. He clutched his shotgun close to his chest and offered a small prayer to the Great Father. Tiberius began to take shuddering steps forward, his shield scraping sparks from the decking beneath them, streaks of fire whipping past their heads. Scaran truly felt in awe of this moment, him and his master against the odds, advancing into suppressive fire and defying the Emperors enemies. He would hold this dear to his heart for a long time to come. He consulted his auspex once more and almost laughed aloud at the readout, he slapped a gloved hand upon his Sergeants massive shoulder guard and pointed.

The roar of shotgun fire erupted at the other end of the corridor, the Tau dancing like marionettes as the armour piercing slugs burst their plas-tech carapaces open. The ceiling above the xeno's sheared open under the weight of fire, there was a clang and then a vent cover crashed into the floor followed by the other scouts. Gellus brought his boot down upon the neck of a slow dying xeno, the sickening crack loud in the silence after the brutal fire fight. Tiberius left his crouched stance and held his shield at ease to his right. His booming laughter cut out of the portcullis grate on the front of his helmet, his footsteps stressing the decking beneath him, he slotted his bolter into the large steel holster bolted to his left thigh. His chainmail tabard rustled and glistened with the watery blood of the Tau, he reached the carnage at the other end of the hallway and nodded his approval.

++ Fine work, my children. Scaran, consult the auspex, you lead. ++

Scaran nodded his bloodied head and pressed a glowing rune upon the auspex, it clicked and whirred for several seconds before chiming in a series of short blips. Scaran took point, hefting his shotgun and bracing it over his forearm, the auspex displaying a screen similar to sonar, sending out short wave pulses to determine bio signs. He mentally counted each click of the auspex, scanning for shorter times between the chimes. Tiberius watched his favourite scout hang a left in the corridor and un-holstered his bolter, gesturing to the others.

++ Well children, seems we've picked up a trail. Move. ++

Scaran could smell them even as the auspex chimed his approach to the life signs. He'd taken off before his kin, leaving them in the darkness of the corridors. He was eager, perhaps too eager to end the foe before him.

His finger tightened on the trigger to his shotgun and he leapt around the corner, the darkness of the hallway penetrated by the light coming from inside the command deck. He eased towards the cavernous mouth leading onto the bridge, taking up position to the left of the door, he slung the auspex and gripped the shotgun in both hands. He wanted the glory, he decided this was the chance to earn his Sword. Scaran mentally geared himself and then jumped in through the doorway, his shotgun barking off two spreads of fire. He took two Tau from their feet before they could react, a third had its helmet ripped apart, its face a bloody mess as it hit the floor. The scout threw himself into cover behind a bench of terminals, racking the slide on his shotgun and sending another hail of fire over the top, he was rewarded by the sound of bursting plas-tech. Scaran risked a glance over the terminals, sighting down the angle of the command centre to the figures clustered in the middle.

Confusion burst inside his mind, he felt a bitter taste creep into his mouth and he pumped the last round home upon his shotgun. They knew he was here, it was impossible not to know, yet they did not react. Scaran eased himself forward along the terminals to one of the four sets of stairs that led down to the centre, then he bolted. His pumped his legs as fast as possible and lifted his shotgun, the roar of it ringing around the circular combat room. He discarded it the armour piercing shot peppering into two of the four cloaked figures crowded around something. One went down, bright blood spurting from its wounds. He tore the blade that hung at his side free, pressing his thumb into the activation stud, the foot long combat blade was lined in a humming glow of amber light. He leapt onto the last row of terminals and dived forward, bringing his knife down in an arc. His target whirled faster than his eyes could cope with, the cloak revealing bone white armour and flame red hair and suddenly he became the target. Unable to stop himself, Scaran was imbedded on the blue scimitar, pain erupted in his body causing him to go blind for a moment, he could feel the power field around the blade searing his insides.

He crashed into the ground, the slender figure in front of him using its foot to slide him clear of its blade. Scaran coughed frothed blood onto his chin and looked up with wide eyes at the foe stood over him. Its armour was curvaceous and form fitting, small gems glittered and pulsed at various points upon its torso, the curve of its armoured breasts catching the dim light in the command centre, causing the armour to gleam pearlescent. Wraith bone, it dawned upon Scaran like a hammer blow. He tried to force himself up but the Banshee stamped her foot onto his wound, slamming him back into the metal. She possessed a strength that belied her fragile seeming form. The air filled with the sound of flutes and the drop of winter dew, his ears twitched, his mind hurt as he realised the Banshee was speaking at him.

'Mon-keigh, you know not what you meddle with. Welcome your corpse god.'

Then she raised her scimitar, shirking the cloak from her shoulders and revealing her deadly beautiful form. Scaran could not accept his death at the hands of this Eldar, he would not accept it, then as if in answer to his thoughts her chest erupted in a gout of flame and blood, shards of wraith bone glittered like tears as they shattered from her form. He watched the pale flesh of her chest shear and tear under the assault of the bolter rounds. Hot, steaming blood splashed his front, splashing into his face. His kin had arrived and so had something else. The metallic taste of the blood burnt through his body, sending his system into overdrive and a red haze descended upon his vision. Clutching the humming power knife in his hand he let out a truly terrifying scream that caused the Eldar to flinch momentarily, his dark eyes shot through with gold and blood, his skin bulged at the muscles trying to break through, his carapace armour strained to contain his bulk. His mind was on fire, an inferno of noise and screaming filled his head, scratching claws and cackling energies. A pale face with daemons eyes swam in his mind's eye, blurring his vision, he witnessed the death of a god and the struggle of titans. He was there and it was killing him, an urge rose in his throat, something was telling him there was only one thing to slate the mind-daemons assaulting him, and that thing was blood.

Tiberius lowered his bolter as it belched smoke from its barrel, his scouts engaged the phantoms of the Eldar, their whistling blades and vicious screeching filled the command centre, but what he was staring at was his favoured son. He witnessed what had been a mortally wounded initiate rise up from the ground, screaming and clawing at his own face, then lunge upon the nearest hooded figure, he saw his scout plunge his knife into the foe again and again, drawing gouts of blood and shreds of organs put with each rend. The two figures crashed into a huge metal crate in the centre of the command deck, the Eldars cloak heavy with its own blood, Scaran rammed his forehead into his foes, the sound of wraith bone cracking audible even over the shotgun bursts and screaming. He watched as his favoured son lifted the Eldars broken and battered head, ripping free its helmet and then with a blood curdling howl, he watched Scaran sink his teeth into the Eldars throat.


	7. Chapter 7

Virgil stared about him in revulsion, the scene before his eyes one of depravity and destruction. The youngest of the Astartes brothers, those newly inducted into the ranks of the Knights were horrified at what they witnessed. Each one of them understanding with a final clarity what they would become. Everything seemed to revolve in slow motion around Virgil, each scream or sickening crack played out longer than it had any right to be, the bright spray of blood cascading like a rain pour down to the earth beneath their feet. What Virgil witnessed was debased savagery common of the Flesh Tearers or in fact, more shockingly, the World Eaters.

His gauntlet clad fingers tightened upon the stock of his bolter, the ceramite squeaking with the pressure. He gazed around the shattered flagstones of the Governors plaza, the blackened, smoke belching palace rising before him. Astartes he had held unmatchable measures of respect for were tearing the world down around him, venerated brothers of the First Company, exemplars of the Chapter, were in a frenzy of bloodlust. He watched one of the Veteran brothers, his black and silver armour thick with gore and the stains of war, swoop down upon twin jets of flame from his jump pack to punch his clenched fist through the body of a fleeing human, tearing one of his arms from the mans shoulder and then tearing the dying guards throat out with his teeth. Chain weapons and bolters were used to bludgeon and rend screaming men to death, heads were crushed between hands, flesh was torn from bodies in ravenous hunger. The Astartes were mauling the humans like savage dogs.

Virgil witnessed the massive form of Veteren Brother Tios, resplendent in his baroque Terminator armour, once a magnificent sight upon the field of battle but now resembling a lapdog of Khorne. The man lifted his power blade, the blade a haze of white incandescent light, a purple smoke playing about its edge, flicks of energy cascading from two pylons upon the blades hilt. The sword came hacking down to connect with what Virgil assumed to be one of the traitors commanding officers. The man was sheared in half, the flash of white hot light from the contact left after glare upon his eyes. Tios was a man possessed, his face twisted into a snarl, his fanged mouth drenched in blood. The giant armour he wore was decked in trophies, several helmets hung from his waist, eldar, ork and even those of once Imperial origin. His gauntlets were tipped in razor talons much like Chaplain Grakars, each plate of Tios armour was studded with spike tipped bolts, his huge shoulder guards jutting out in winged pauldrons, all manner of chains and scraps of litany scrolls hanging from them.

The Terminator vanguard behind the Veteran Sergeant crushed men to pulp with their massive power fists, hurricane torrents from their storm bolters annihilating men, turning them into chunks of steaming meat in blood red clouds. Virgil could feel bile rise in his throat momentarily, in all his days as an Initiate beneath Tiberius in the 10th Company, he'd never witnessed a bloodletting of this scale. His eyes watched as one of the black clad warriors of the Terminators cast aside his storm bolter, with his power fist he tore his bulky helmet from his features and let it clatter to the stone beneath him. His hand shot forward and snared a limping human, the hulking warrior lifted the screaming man, crushing his waist with his powerful grip. His teeth came down in a vicious head butt to the man's face, shearing the flesh from his cheek. The Terminator gripped the man's shoulder with his other hand, the power fist's energy field searing and bubbling the man's body, cooking him in its fierce energies. The Terminator began to take chunks of the man's face off, swallowing down the flesh and cracking his body until it was broken and limp. He cast the man aside, the body scattered like a torn rag doll across the stones, a dark smear left along the ground.

A gauntlet clamped down upon Virgil's shoulder and his helmet snapped to stare at it. Each plate upon the fingers was slick with blood, but he could make out the scripted black armour beneath, litanies curling round each finger plate in tooled carvings. The fingers ended in viciously curved tips, like the talons of an eagle, the knuckled ridge was decked with sharp pyramids of adamantium. Virgil knew exactly who had hold of him and with a dread surfacing in his throat he slowly turned to face the towering form of Grakar. The Chaplains bald head was smeared with dark blood, frothy tendrils of saliva roping down his red stained chin. His eyes glowed like daemon fire, their red halo's piercing and seeming to peel away the layers of Virgil's very soul, the smile that spread across the Chaplains flesh clogged teeth did nothing to comfort Virgil. The young Astartes could no longer keep the venom from his voice, his shoulder pulling back away from the Chaplains grasp. The bronze plated grille upon Virgil's helm crackled into life as his voice spilled from the vox unit.

++ My lord! What is this barbarism? ++

The Chaplains smile grew in intensity, becoming shark like and taking on a vicious air. He lifted his other hand and Virgil turned a lip at what he saw clutched in the Chaplains grasp. It was human, well it had been, it was missing an arm and a leg. Its face had been stripped and there was only ragged clumps of meat and blood stuck to the skull, great gouges and tears had been shredded down the man's body and tags of flesh dangled from the Chaplains deadly clawed hands. The words that came from Grakar's stained teeth smashed into Virgil with all the force of hammer blows, his mind reeling from what was said.

" Why, the Emperors work, young Virgil. "

Then with a sickening dawning, Virgil realised not one of the Knights before him bore the symbols of the Death Company. He despaired to think what savagery and evil his Chapter committed in the name of the Emperor of Mankind.


	8. Chapter 8

The chamber was dark and so cold it caused even the super human Astartes to shiver and seek the comfort of their enclosed armour, helmets and atmosphere seals shut tight against the deep freeze. There were four of the hulking warriors assembled around the huge sarcophagus suspended by thick lengths of adamantine chain in the centre of the room. Three of them wore the black and bone of the Chaplaincy and one bore the iron rimmed skull of the Mechanicum upon his crimson armour. Panels glowed green and red with stark life upon the walls, contrasting the armour of the warriors in a rich plethora of colours. The huge vault door behind them was sealed shut, sealing to become part of the thick armoured walls.

" Indrik, how long has it been since we have had this burden? "

Came a voice soon full of authority and synthesised power that it caused the hairs on the back of the battle hardened Indriks neck to rise. The Interrogator took a side step and turned to face the Master Chaplain of the Knights Vermillion, crossing his black armoured arms across the chainmail tabard upon his torso. The sight of the Chaplains was something to be in awe of, the command structure of the Knights were the Templari, the warrior-priests who struggled to keep their wayward sons in check. Each bore tokens and amulets from a thousand battles and each carried a shield and Crozius into battle. Taloned gauntlets and razor sharp hatred brought swift justice to their enemies, but their deep wisdom and spiritual guidance helped to shape their battle brothers into more than monsters.

The Master Chaplain, the Knight-Templar himself was an awesome sight to behold. Tactical Dreadnought armour encased his form, his head un-helmeted in the chill air of the chamber. No skin remained upon his skull, he had suffered wounds too great to save his features and what remained of his head was encased in a skull of burnished steel, angry bionics glaring red hate at everything he gazed upon, gold tipped adamantium formed the long fangs that glimmered in the low light. Indrik could see the servos and fibre bundles beneath the skull and the scraps of flesh that remained to the venerable elder. The Knight Templar was reaching his eight century, but the ministrations of the Master-smith Ardakas had seen his body near encased in the Terminator armour which made the Chaplain master a terrifying force upon the battlefield.

" I'd wager the last was two thousand turns of Athena, M'lord. The records were ill kept and many have fallen into the darkness of ignorance. "

Indrik was the Chapters Interrogator, tasked to seeking out the seeds of corruption and heresy within the ranks of the Knights and its vassals, it seemed he was being scrutinised for not realising something as disgusting as a psyker was present within the Chapter. He watched Master Alabaster stomp forward two steps to the front of the carved stasis-tomb suspended in the air. The Master gestured with one of his taloned power claws for the Master of the Forge to approach.

" Bring this thing online, Ardakas. "

The crimson armoured warrior stepped forward, his right arm replaced by a whirring bionic, the skeletal steel fingers curling into a fist as he approached the sarcophagus. He kept the anger that bubbled up inside him buried under mountains of data streams and interfaced himself once more with the control panelling upon the side of the suspended tomb. This thing had caused so many deaths, so many of his Adepts and priests were splattered corpses, so many ancient tech destroyed because of this abomination. It sickened him to think his old friend Typhot had been possessed by such a creature while he was tittering upon the brink of death. Alabaster and Indrik had used the word 'Daemon' upon storming the Forge, it had set the Tech-priests to a whole new level of fervour in shutting down the rampant Dreadnought.

Two figures that had accompanied the Chaplains were now stood within the room with them, having stood as silent guardians either side of the Sarcophagus, shrouded in its shadow. They had smashed into the Dreadnought with savage fury only the Templari could muster, but with something extra. These were Sentinels. They armour was an the unpainted grey of ceramite, their helmets black as night. They were the Templari's special weapon in the war against psykers, they were pariahs.

The two Space Marines stepped forward to either side of the Dreadnought tomb and Ardakas could feel the significant drop in the immediate atmosphere, like it became completely devoid of sound or feeling. It was an unpleasant feeling. He resumed his task of bringing the Sarcophagus online and began to chant the rites of incantation.

A flare of sparks and a grinding filled the air of the chamber before a series of lights blinked into life on the front of the stasis-tomb.

It was a tense silence, a long silence before it was broken. A static filled sigh erupted from the dreadnought and the voice was strained.

++ You keep us imprisoned within this chamber? Why do you do this act? ++

Alabaster stepped before the Sarcophagus so the thing within could see him in all his glory. The curved black pauldrons, the taloned power claws, the rolls of parchment that adorned his body and the sigils and runes of the Templari. The Sentinels nodded and the Templar stepped even closer.

" We keep you imprisoned because by your very existence you are an enemy of our Creed. "

There was another silence, then it spoke again.

++ You creatures are extremely ignorant. Your kind is primitive and lack lustre for the rest of the universe around you. ++

Alabaster folded his massive gauntlets across his broad chest. Indrik and the other Chaplain stepped forward to flank either side now they were comfortable the Sentinels null field had contained the things power.

" You are a Daemon, you have possessed one our Honoured Brethren, you are an Abomination that needs to be scryed from existence. "

The thing chuckled, the sound a burst of static that caused Ardakas to subconsciously position his Servo arms in a striking position, he resembled some quasi-mechanical scorpion.

++ We are no Daemon-fiend. Do not accuse us of possession, it is such an unclean process, no, We are using this one as a conduit. We only sought out the latent psychic powers he possesses. ++

All the Chaplains gasped in shock. How could they have missed this? Such a venerable and honoured member of the Chapter a latent psyker? Had Typhot kept it secret? Or had he not even known himself? How had this not been revealed in his scrying as an initiate? So many questions.

While they were forming litanies of protection upon their lips, the thing spoke once more.

++ This is Yien-mal, correct? Athena in your tongue? ++

Alabasters ruby red eyes snapped to the vision slit upon the Sarcophagus and he stomped forward and grasped the adamantine shell in his power claws.

" What do you know of our planet? Speak, creature. "

The thing merely chuckled once more.

++ It is not your planet mon-keigh, it is ours, from before the Beginning. It is the resting place of something sacred, something older than all the races of the galaxy. It is home to an artefact older than time itself and as your Maker, we demand you protect it. They are coming, we can feel them approach. Darkness and Blood will soak your world, the Walking Dead approach from beyond the dark space. ++

Its voice had the air of prophecy and even Alabaster himself was rapt with attention as he listened to the thing.

" Speak, what must we protect? SPEAK! "

Then it whispered.

++ The Life Key. ++


	9. Chapter 9

Athena.

The once lush and verdant world, with its continent spanning forests and its shimmering crystal oceans, was now a nuclear blasted husk of its former glory. Mountains pierce the sky like a jagged jaw line upon the world, the sky is clear and the Athenian star punishes the surface of the planet. Natural resources are scarce after the initial strip mining by the Mechanicum in the wake of the Heresy and the craters of a cataclysmic battle in the heavens still scar the endless deserts. Over the millennia a hardy population has risen from the ashes of the once proud culture and diverse linage of the previous populations of Athena. Athena used to be a thriving trading planet, with resources in abundance. The northern collectives controlled the iron and gold ore, the south controlled the spices and herbs, the west had endless droves of livestock and perishable resources while the east were the finest architects and marble holders upon the planet. Truces and trade agreements were standard procedure upon Athena, everyone had something the others wanted. Until the Imperium came.

The Imperium wanted everything, even Athena's people and in return the Athenians were given the Imperial Truth. Profitless words from an interstellar despot. Rebellion and grief is what the Imperium expected, well thought out arguments and a hard trading agreement is what they received. Athena managed in maintaining its limited independence from the yoke of Imperialism, but it came at a cost. They were forced into the galaxy shattering civil war and their peoples were butchered under the hordes of the World Eaters. The survivors had the small Imperial Fist company to thank for their continued life. The brave Astartes paid dearly with their lives so the indigenous people would continue on after the war.

Then the Mechanicum came with the giants in blue. The Ultramarines made planet fall in the years after the Heresy and instated new laws and policies to be followed by the shattered people. Real rebellion and disgust for the Imperium rose up in the people and the Loyalists were hated for their presence. The Mechanicum began to tear and shatter the planet's surface, sucking the oceans dry, cracking the mountains for their ore, felling forests in days. The people of Athena held a hatred for the Imperium none could match. Their lives and beautiful planet had gone from perfection to a shattered world with a fraction of the people remaining thanks to the Imperium.

It was many thousands of years until the Imperium came again. The people of Athena had split into two very distinctive cultural groups. Those who tried to gleam a measure of their former glory and those who accepted their fate. All memory of the Imperials had faded to dust and time with the honoured dead and a Missionary vessel made planet fall bringing aid and defence from the giant creatures roaming the ash and sand deserts. They also brought with them, the God Emperor. Faith. Pure and un-tempered faith is what was given to the people of Athena, that faith came in the guise of silken promises and resources.

The Faith brought war once more to Athena's surface. After two hundred years of the missionary expedition leaving the surface, the religion had evolved into something dangerous. The people of the land and those who dwelt along the coasts of the polluted oceans remaining on Athena followed the Imperial way of belief, holding tithe and honour the Emperor for deliverance from the eternal darkness. Those that dwelt in the deserts, those that dwelt within the vast tribes believed differently, they believed the Emperor was truly the divine God. The lived in total devotion to him, relying on the almighty power of the God Emperor to provide them with the means of life and living and they believed wholly the others on Athena should believe as they did. That they needed no outside help from the star walkers and that the Emperor would watch over them and bring them all they needed.

This sparked a feud, that feud became a long standing grudge which eventually turned into a religious war that spread like fire across the surface of the planet.

This continued as the galaxy was plunged into civil war once more with the devout versus the heretic in a battle of religious fanaticism. In the wake of this, the Knights Vermillion came. The Athena's do not know of the dark and treacherous origins of the Knights and nor will they ever find out, but they were grateful for the Astartes appearance. Like people do, they had forgotten about the evils the Imperium had brought upon them in the name of advancement.

The newly formed Knights Vermillion found Athena a divided people and culturally diverse, much needed preparing for the backlash of the galaxies terrible wars. The people were abused and punished and the Astartes sought to avenge that, the Knights primary mantra, to uphold the citizen above the leader was put into full drive. The Astartes descended in flocks, helping to build castles and population centres, they helped train the men in the art of warfare, equipped the nation with the means to defend itself. The Astartes set up forge foundries and churned out all manner of melee weaponry and armour to outfit the encountered peoples. They brought writing and literature. they brought Imperial history and ways of purifying what little consumable resources left on the planet.

The people of Athena revered the Knights for what they had done and held them as the protectors of Athena. The humble Astartes declined at first, but after the insistence of the free people the Knights accepted lordship of the people, vowing to protect their kind throughout the galaxy until the last Knight died. Then the desert dwellers came, seeking such help from these new star walkers. The opening greetings did not end well, ridiculed and held in contempt by the Astartes for their devotion filled god bothering the cries of heretic were upon every dweller lips. Casting the desert tribes back from the walls of the great castle states, the Astartes concurred in secret they would recruit new initiates from both cultures, there were great warriors bred upon this planet.

They set up the Choosing. Trials and hardship which could kill even the most bold and proud of men, the reward? To become a protector, to become one of the great Warriors of the Emperor.

Scato took the sword blow upon his shield, the sound rung out with a clash of steel in the hall. The shock of the blow sent shivers down his arm, numbing his shoulder. His attacker rained several more blows down upon his kite shield, the steel denting and flaking under the assault. The young Athenian warrior rolled backwards away from the sword of his opponent, resting upon the balls of his feet. He flicked his head to the side in an effort to shift his dark locks which had stuck to his forehead, his skin slick with sweat. It was uncomfortable and was clinging to the chainmail dressing his body. He clutched the grip upon his long sword tightly and stroked the leather wrapping of the handle. His keen green eyes studying his adversary.

Mikahil was a brute, easily a head taller than Scato and as wide as an ox at the shoulders. If the smaller youth hadn't clung to his shield he'd have had his skull split in the opening seconds of the melee. The other was coming in for another swing and Scato pushed himself into a lunge to his left. Mikahail's sword whistled a mere whisper from his cheek, cutting the air where Scato had been crouched. The taller combatant instantly reversed his stroke and came hurtling towards Scato's side, smashing into his shield arm and hearing a crunch as his wrist was pinned between the shield and his own mailed torso. Pain lanced up Scato's arm and he felt a hot throbbing fill his fingers, his shield sagged in his grip, but he would not be defeated. With a snarl of exertion filled anger he brought his sword arcing round to collide with the side of Mikahail's knee. The brute yelped as the sound of crunched mail filled the hall, quickly followed by the crash of armour.

Scato stood, taking several steps back and fumbling with his shield straps. A herald called out across the assembled hall, announcing Scato of House Thracian, the winner of the melee bout. House Kanatch would receive the dishonour sash. Scato's house squire came hurrying forward but fell short with a face of shock, his eyes fixed over Scato's left shoulder. He knew what was coming and braced himself as best he could in the scant second he had. The young warrior had managed to half turn the shield to face the approaching blow but a good hand measure of the blade slapped into his shoulder, almost popping it from the joint. Once again pain flared in his already damaged arm and tears filled his eyes. Mikahil looked possessed, his eyes bulged and his teeth were smeared in frothy spit. He brought his weapon up for another blow when a figure moved as fast as lightening. Stone cracked and silence filled the hall as Mikahil was snatched bodily from the floor and left dangling all his weight by his right arm. The sword clattered onto the cracked slabs at the Astartes feet and Mikahil struggled against the iron grip.

" Dishonour, aspirant. You do not strike a fellow warrior when his back is turned. You lost. "

The bellow blew the hair from Mikahil's features and gave him pause in his thrashings. He tensed, trying to hold his armoured weight better and heaved in his breaths. His venom filled eyes flicked to Scato who was having the shield and chainmail prised from his wrent arm. He looked back to the giant who held him suspended from the floor, wishing for anything beyond the stars to have the same strength so he could fight back against the Knight-Protector. His voice came out in a growl.

" His strike would not have finished me, I am not defeated when upon my back. The rules to your Proving are moot and ill conceived. "

There was an intake of breath from the assembled nobles and one or two cried out for punishment. He had dared to speak to the Knight as if he were and equal or in fact, the Astartes better.

Mikahil expected the fearsome warrior to strike him down and crush the life from his body but the warrior just stood silent, staring into Mikahil's brown eyes with his devilish red ones. The Knight spoke after a moment of silence, his long fangs framing his pink tongue, his blonde hair falling across his face as he tilted his head.

" You would strike a man when his back is turned, even after being helped through the Ash deserts by this individual? After he has saved your life? "

There was a weight to the Astartes words that were not lost upon Mikahil Kanatch. He gazed into those deep red eyes for a while, choosing his words carefully. Then he spoke.

" In that he was my friend, in this he is my foe, whatever the cost, victory is paramount. "

Whatever the Astartes had been expecting, Mikahil could not know, yet his words seemed to have abated something and he was lowered to the ground. The hulking warrior turned to the assembled crowds and placed one large gauntlet upon the pommel of the gigantic sword at his hip.

" Hark! The Choosing is at an end. "

The crowd gathered in, a mere handful of them totting weapons and sporting injuries. House Kanatch versus House Thracian had been the final bout of the tournament.

" The road has been hard and many of your fellows have been lost to the perils of Athena. I understand this, it was the same for me. I too braved the Grim Silence, where we all endured a month in darkness and silence, where we drank the rainfall and ate what scraps of food we could find in the dark. I endured as you have. "

He began to walk, his armoured might stressing the ground. He curled his hand into a fist as he circled the warrior aspirants.

" You have braved the Wasting Road, cast out from the safety of your holdings, cast out from the safety of your family and friends. You were plucked from the lives you knew and strew into the unforgiving desert and mountains, left to die. Many did not return, Athena and her beasts have claimed them, they have proven themselves unworthy of becoming a Warrior of the Stars. I returned. So have you, many of you helped each other, earning comradeship and proving the worth of loyalty. "

He held them all with his words, Scato's pain was briefly forgotten as he listened with rapt attention to the Knight.

" You spent weeks living with each other, forging bonds unbreakable, training , eating, sleeping and praying together. You have become a brotherhood and today in this hall, you have endured the Rite of Uron. You have emulated the trials our Master endured, you have endured having your brothers, those close to you, turn and attack you. You have faced darkness and death and you have endured. For that, all of you holding a sword...all of you soaked with your own sweat...those of you with fire in your hearts, rejoice! For now...you are no longer men of Athena... "

The silence was painful. The Astartes stopped dead centre once more. Knowing he held all of the assembled warriors and nobles by their entire attention.

He turned to encompass the whole group, outstretching his arms wide, extending his thumbs and then crossing his hands across his chest. He formed the sign of the Aquila.

" I salute you! For though our path has been long and bloody, you have proved to our Chapter that you posses unflinching courage and the honour of true warriors. Your reward has come, I welcome you brothers, as Initiates of the Knights Vermillion. The Emperor is proud of you this day. "

The explosion of noise was even almost deafening for the Astartes, who couldn't help the smile that spread across his features. The joy and exhilaration that resounded in the hall was awe inspiring. He felt a warmth inside him and he let the smile linger for a moment more before crushing the feeling of elation under an iron fist of composure. There was much work to be done, all they had proven is that they were ready for the next stage of the initiation. Even more of them would die, horrible, painful and ultimately meaningless deaths.

Captain Valoran of the Tenth Company made his exit from the giant cathedral whilst the civilians celebrated. He nodded to the two Astartes guarding the door, their bolters clutched to their chests. He took in a breath of the air, the taste tangy upon his tongue. His body filtered out the pollutants and chemicals in the air, causing him to hock up a glob of phlegm onto the dusty dirt path leading down the hill from the front of the Cathedral. He'd seen the records in the bank of ancient logic engines in the bowels of the Cathedral complex, this place, the city of Trojas had once been a mighty and beautiful place, framed by forest blanketed mountains and the pearlescent sea behind the Cathedral. Now, it was a ghost of its former glory. The sea was black and violent, the mountains bare and home to vicious clans of tribal's. The city of Trojas was now walled in, castles jutted out from the city line, no white buildings of beauty only an expanse of brick and mortar. An ugly city for an ugly world.

The only thing that gave Valoran pause for contemplation was the valley path between the twin mountain ranges. The ancient gate of the Trojasian people had long since disappeared under tides of ash and war, but it was symbol of Imperial hope that towered above them. The mighty war engine of the Heresy times stood immobile between the mountains. The giant Warlords weapons had been silent for thousands and thousands of years. Great gouges and scars in the mountains and earth around it attested to the mighty battle that ravaged Athena in the dark ages of the Imperium. The awesome might of the Titan was marred by the ash clinging to it, the way the Athenian creeper vines had obscured most of its lower half, a forest of thorns and bramble. Rusted and inoperable, it had withstood the test of time and battle. A relic of the Imperium of man.

Valoran creased his brow and tapped his index finger upon the pommel of his powers word in contemplation.

If such a mighty machine was upon this forgotten backwater, then what else, perhaps dwelt upon the surface of this planet? What other artefacts of mankind would they find among the systems planets?

He cast his gaze to the heavens and his enhanced vision picked out a streak of light just visible in the atmosphere. His brow creased above his blood red eyes. A second later a shockwave rippled down from the heavens and sent a sheet of dust and ash into his face. He turned away from the bright glare in the heavens above and stomped towards the two Astartes behind him. One of them was evidently communicating via voxlink inside his helmet, his bolter held easy by his side, his shoulders turned down. The other approached and the grille upon the front of his helmet flared into static light.

++ Commander, the Errant is requesting all able Astartes to return aboard. The Spear of Athena was just destroyed by an enemy fleet who have arrived in system. ++

Valoran scowled, no rest for the pious it seemed. He inwardly cursed this systems proximity to the Eastern Crusades.

" What are we expecting? "

The Astartes turned in step to follow Valoran as he marched into the Cathedral once more.

++ Fleet-ward reports indicate the main body of the fleet are Ork, the greenskins are being driven towards us by the Tau like stampeding grox. ++

Valoran snarled, causing a few of the closest nobles to shirk away in fear. Now he understood why they were being recalled ship side. The Orks would attempt to board the Imperial ships, anything to bolster their own scrap heap flotilla.

The hall fell silent as he stormed through the crowd towards the Courtyard entrance, the awaiting Thunderhawk would lift them all skyward and into war.

" Those of you who have been chosen, you will come with me now. Your lives upon Athena are over and you serve the Chapter now. The Stars await you. "

The sun dipped below the horizon as the gunship boomed off into the atmosphere, leaving the inhabitants of Trojas gazing up into the heavens.


	10. Chapter 10

Smoke and blood filled the air, the taste pleasing something dark and bitter in the depth of Tiberius' soul. He shook his head within the confines of his thick armoured helm, pushing his cheek against the cool ceramite inside in an effort to relieve a phantom itch. It had been four centuries since he had under gone to Trials of Choosing. Four centuries he'd had to hone his rage and hunger into a tolerable companion. He'd like to say he succeeded, yet when amongst such carnage as this, he had to wonder. His foot crunched into the chest of one of the fallen Firewarriors, splitting the plas-tech and popping its innards into a mushy pulp. He continued down the row of steps between the ancient logic engines and data banks. The battle, if one could call it that, had ended in as much time as it took one to draw a breath. Scaran, his favoured squire, had devoured and rent upon the Xenos witch, while his other sons had unleashed a shotgun storm upon the lightly armoured Banshee's who had tried to close the distance.

Tiberius fixed his eyes upon Scaran and bared his fangs beneath his helm. He pointed towards the initiate and spat an order into his vox unit.

++ Gellus, Irik, restrain your brother. ++

The two scout-squires nodded and sped off down the steps towards their fellow, Irik went low, Gellus aiming high. Between them, they wrestled the screaming Scaran to the floor. The struggled to contain the bucking warrior, his rage doubling his strength and tenacity. Tiberius closed the gap between him and the struggling initiates and brought the rear end of his bolter smashing into Scaran's already bloody forehead, knocking the consciousness from him. The rage caused his body to twitch, his fingers still grasped and gripped, his mouth gnashed lazily, the monster within sought to continue the bloodshed.

++ You two keep watch on him. Heinan, Fullum, secure the immediate area, execute those still living. ++

The order left his lips as he fixed his eyes upon the mewling form of the Eldar witch. The sagging green robes were heavy and thick with bright blood, it lay propped against the huge sealed stasis contained in the centre of the command pit. Its large fluted helm was cracked, one of the visor plates had shattered and a pale grey eye glared at the Astartes. It clutched at its throat, trying feebly to stem to tide of blood washing down its torso.

Tiberius leant forward and placed his bolter rifle upon the top of the container, the metal giving off a dull thunk as it connected with the dust encrusted box. He let the servo's compensate for his weight as he lowered himself down into a crouch, his chainmail tabard pooling upon the floor beneath him. He lifted his hands and grasped either side of the long wraith bone helmet, the warlock clutched at his wrists but Tiberius was insanely stronger than the dying alien and just lifted the helmet clear. Dark locks spilled down the creatures shoulders, revealing knife curved ears and ivory skin, elongated eyes and high cheekbones gave it an utterly alien appearance and its small gasping mouth was turning blue from loss.

++ Why are you here, witch? ++

His voice was soft, almost sensitive, but there was an unmistakeable bite of venom in it. Contempt.

The Eldar reached up to grab at the huge gorget rimming the Astartes helmet, but Tiberius intercepted the hand, clasping it within his and leaning down.

The Warlock worked its lips as if trying to say something before spitting a glob of sticky blood onto the faceplate of the Space Marines helmet.

Tiberius sighed, the sound a crackle of static out of the bronze rimmed grille set into the side of his armoured face plate. He fixed his eyes onto the Eldars and applied pressure with his fingers. There was a snap and the xeno groaned lowly.

++ I will not repeat myself a second time. What are you doing here? ++

The creature sucked in a few breaths before whispering something in its dirty tongue, then it considered for a moment and grunted out a string of broken Imperial.

" Idara'liel, human. You cannot be trusted with the Makers tools. You have built on top of Greatness, sullied it with your stupid fingers. It must be destroyed to allow the Maker to return and stop the Walking Dead, the Great Pestilence. "

It hawked a spew of frothy blood up onto its chest and its head slumped forward. Tiberius released its wrist and grabbed its head, pushing it back and leaning closer.

++ I am not without compassion, explain your actions and I will end it quickly, Eldar. ++

The things eyes flickered, ghostly and now bloodshot. Tiberius could see a glittering jewel upon the front of its wraith bone armour flutter and dim, knowing its life would soon be spent.

" Your primitive technologies stain the first splendours of this galaxy, this thing we seek... "

It grasped at the massive box behind it, its fingers clawing at one of the armoured ridges on the container.

" ...it falls to your kind now, we have failed due to your machinations. You must remove your war machine creator from the Life Key, before the Great Devourer comes from the dark...the Maker has placed too much faith in your kind. Do not fail, or you will all die. Now kill me human, I do not wish to speak to you any further. Kalac'cha. "

The xeno's closed its eyes and placed its fragile hand upon the forearm of Tiberius battle plate. It was a reverent touch, accepting its fate. Tiberius could respect that show of emotion from the creature, even if it was alien. He gripped the Bolter from the containers top, lifting it a fraction before considering the situation. He replaced it and then took the Eldars head in both of his hands, one each side of its jaw.

++ Find peace with your Gods, xeno. ++

With a jerk of his wrists, the Eldar died.

Tiberius lowered its sagging head slowly until its chin was flush with its chest, ignoring the jagged angle of broken bone in its neck. He stood, the servo's whining once more with the motion.

He gripped his Bolter and mag-locked it to the thick plating of his thigh and ran his fingers over the surface of the stasis container. There was a strange Eldar device upon the gene-lock, it resembled a data slate in an odd way, a smooth white square with a glimmering black centre. He gripped it and tore it from the container, casting it to shatter on the far wall of the ancient ships command centre. He gazed at the gene print lock and considered it for a moment, none here would posses the required genetic code to open this crate. He doubted anyone in the galaxy would.

Instead, using the gifts given to him, the Knight-Sergeant proceeded to grunt and strain, upping the strength output of his armour until the servo's and fibre bundles threatened to pop and split.

With a roar of exertion, he tore the top of the crate from the bottom half, a gust of ice choked air puffing outwards from the interior. He stumble backwards, but his suit recalibrated to right his position. He unlocked his gauntlets and flung the crate top away, stepping back to the container. Hoar frost coated everything from view, crystal glimmering mist poured out over the sides of the crate like smoke. The Knight-Sergeant lowered his gauntlet and wiped away the ice crystals, the sound like wind chimes as the shards collided with the ancient metal deck.

He could make out a secondary container, a thick black lock box two foot wide and a foot deep. He could make out imperial letters stamped onto it but the millennia of frost obscured most of it from view. The Knight glanced around the chamber, watching his scouts dragging the pile of corpses into the corner of the room and setting up a defensible exterior from any potential threats.

He turned back to the crate and realised he was holding his breath. With a steady hand he smoothed away the rest of the ice with the side of his fist, his eyes widening as he read what was revealed. Both of his hearts skipped a beat and he felt a burning lump in his throat.

He turned and gripped at his gorget, smacking the vox stud.

++ Sergeant Tiberius to the Errant, requesting crimson level retrieval, requesting archaeotech recovery team, over. ++

He waited long moments, his eyes fixed upon the slouched form of the dead Eldar at his feet. A touch of prophecy hit him like a gunshot and he almost missed the return transmission.

++ Errant, to Sergeant Tiberius, request acknowledged, extraction team enroute, May He watch over you. ++

Tiberius released the held breath and was suddenly hit by a sense of cloying claustrophobia. He fumbled with the maglocks upon his helmet and tore it from his armour, letting it clatter to the floor beneath him. He leant forward, gripping the sides of the container, letting his eyes rove over the words once more.

Standard Template Construct Activation Key


	11. Chapter 11

Lexmar Prime had been brought back into the folds of the Imperium, but it would feel the scars left by the Knights for a thousand years.

The palace had been brought down upon the heads of the traitors to the Imperial rule and the rebel forces had been utterly crushed. Those remaining loyal to the Imperial forces crawled from their holes and scrambled from the dark of the world to stand upon the blood and corpse strewn streets. They breathed in the copper tasting air, thick with smoke and death. Several days had passed since the battle, no, the massacre. Clean up operations had been tasked to the reinforcing Guard from Lexmar Secundus and a strict curfew had been imposed by the returning governance office.

The capitol city of Lexmar Prime lit the skyline with her fires. Two Guardsmen scrambled along one of the deserted high streets, rubble and twisted metal making their journey difficult. The first crested a tumbled building spread across the road, the second stumbling back down the pile of rockcrete.

' Frak it! '

Lesker dropped himself down onto the slab of building he'd fallen onto, rubbing the life back into his numb knee. The first one turned, clutching his auto rifle between thick gloves, he chuckled to himself and took a step back down.

' I suppose we can take five minutes rest, you got a Lho? '

Lesker delved his fingers into the top pocket of his great coat and fiddled for a moment before pulling a battered pack of smoke sticks out. He tossed them up over his shoulder.

' Cheers. '

Demeter stooped to grab the pack and straightened himself, sliding one out of the pack and snapping the small plastic strip upon the front of it. The Lho-stick sparked and he sucked on the other end of it, puffing out blue clouds from around the cigarette. He dropped the pack into his pocket and patted it. He looked down at Lesker as the man whistled in appreciation of the destruction around them.

' Them Astartes didn't leave much left to even piss on did they, eh? '

Demeter nodded and sucked on the smoke stick again, picking his way back down the rubble to sit beside Lesker.

' Well, that's what happens if your regiment turns its back on the Emperor like this. You don't get a commissariat prat shooting you in the back, you get annihilated. '

Lesker folded his arms over his lasgun, working his fingers over the pitted wooden stock.

' I didn't even think them Space Marines was real. I thought they was just something the on High made up to keep the piss in us. Guess I was wrong about that. I mean, angels and daemons and all that were just cooked up by the church to keep the masses in line, well that's what my 'pa always used to say. '

Demeter looked down at his six year companion and raised an eyebrow.

' That before or after they carted his arse off for speaking heresy? You're lucky I hate you so much, or I'd have shot you for that. The Astartes are real and they do bring the wrath of the Emperor with them...all you have to do is look on the parade yard outside the palace. '

He shuddered at the thought of what he'd seen, he wouldn't be able to sleep for that night, he doubted he'd ever forget the carnage.

Leskers vox unit crackled into life, picking up a broad wave transmission. He thumbed the tuning tool upon the side of the speaker unit attached to his combat webbing and sought to clear the source.

++...this day...fires and war...Emperor willing...++

Demeter leant forward, ushering Lesker to hurry up clearing the signal. The second man frowned at the first and continued scrubbing the line until with a grunt he was receiving the message with only the barest cut of static.

++ He smiles upon this field of battle, brothers. We have performed his work. I lament at the destruction of sacred human souls, but to turn from his Light is to condemn one's self. Let it be known, that we, the Knights Vermillion have preserved those worthy of His love and strengthened their faith. ++

Lesker fixed his eyes with Demeter as a sound cut through the silence of the street around them. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Both men knew that to be the sound of armour shod feet. The Guardsmen scrambled up over the lip of the fallen building and their breath caught in their throats at what they saw.

The armoured might of the Adeptus Astartes marched along in unison, black and red armour glistening under the glow of the sun. The head of the procession was a wash of silver and black, hulking giants in dreadnought armour smashed rubble aside with their crackling power fists. The leader of this band of brothers was not difficult to pick out, a tall banner, bearing the impaled body of the rogue commander bopped up and down, a red gauntlet clutching a black sword upon the fluttering cloth. The brother holding it aloft marched behind the obvious master of the Chapter, two others of this honour guard clutching the poles to a palanquin that stretched above the two figures beneath it. Clad in a high gorget which obscured fully half of the black helmet, the bone embossed shoulder guards which glittered with ruby blood drops and taloned gauntlets, the Chapter master was a sight to behold. A great shawl of chainmail was wrapped around his form, the bulk of a jump pack strapped to his broad shoulders. A fearsome axe with a glowing white blade was clutched in one hand, in the other was a pistol of monstrous proportions. The ground seemed to blacken and smoulder beneath his tread, a constant wash of steam and smoke boiling up from within the creases of his armour plating. The harsh red glare of his helmet visors forced home the dread one would feel to face such a warrior upon the field of battle.

++ Lift up your hearts and remember, though our work is bloody, our nature savage, it brings justice for the innocent. We go to accept the offering of the peoples, we go to be humbled by their gesture. We do not ask for such a reward, but it may preserve our humanity and bring us clarity of purpose. ++

Demeter let the Lho stick fall from his lips, Lesker perched upon the edge of the rubble with held breath.

Thralls and robed figures trailed between the hulking brutes, oil soaked cloths and burning braziers were applied to the armours of the venerable warriors, removing the grit and stains of war. Each brother that received such attention bowed to the servants before resuming their stoic positions in the march, bolt guns clamped to their massively wide chests. Shields as large as a door were strapped to the backs of almost every Marine, long swords were positioned upon the right hip of each warrior, their baroque armour must have been millennia old, decked in seals of purity, litanies of faith and moment. Great swathes of chainmail decked the brotherhood, an array of trinkets and fetishes adorned each warrior, identifying them as individual in such a uniform formation.

The second figure beneath the palanquin was a visage of death. His armour midnight black and built in such a way as to offend courage itself. Curving plates were studded with iron spikes, the fingers upon the long gauntlets ended in razor sharp claws. Skulls were chained and bound to the warriors waist, blood smeared Aquila's carved into the very bone. A giant steel shod book was also chained to the black armour, jostling for position with an ornate pistol which gave off a sickly green glow from the ribbed power coils upon its barrel. Clutched in one hand was a weapon of pure power, two scything wings of gold and steel attached to a iron studded shaft, a halo of blue power arcing in fitful streaks across the head of the maul. By his gestures, it was this terrifying skull faced warrior who delivered the sermon over the vox network.

Demeter tried to count the Angels of Death as they marched past but it was hopeless, his count became jumbled after the first hundred. Such a sight shocked him to the depths of his soul. The size of them was magnificent and horrifying. He'd always assumed to legends to be full of grandeur and misinformation. If anything, the legends were lacking, these were not the Emperors defenders of humanity, no, these were living weapons, each capable of subduing an entire nation under his heel.

They watched for a time, awed and barely noticing the drone that filled the air. It was the sound of voices, deep and thunderous. Hundreds of them joined together in union and it almost rumbled the ground beneath their feet. Each of the Space Marines were bellowing at the top of their super enhanced lungs, their projected voices loud with their praise to the Emperor and a mighty being called Sanguinius. Lesker tried to say something but his words were swallowed by the behemoth that followed at the rear of the procession.

The ground shuddered under the mighty footfalls of the war machine. Its armoured form resplendent with banners and chains, icons and skulls. The front of the Dreadnought was wrought into the form of a screaming eagle, wings spread out to form the shoulder armour. A shield was clamped to the left side of the sarcophagus, a sword chained the to right. The left arm ended in a huge fist, the mechanical fingers clanking together in reflex movements. The right arm belched steam from the twin barrels of the scorched radiation weapon, its yawning maw too forged to resembled the double eagle of the Emperor. It came with its own precession, twin mounted shoulder speakers blaring its own liturgy. Two thralls in red robes bore twin banners behind the behemoth, depicting a magnificent warrior with wings, baring his golden sword aloft. Behind these banner bearers were a train of savants and worshippers, baring the holy weapon shells and gas canisters the warrior-machine would require for combat. Amidst the sea of serfs was a techno-mage, his power armour completely encompassing his form in locked bands of red ceramite. Instead of the eagle upon his chest he bore a skull bossed cog symbol. Metal spiders legs swayed and juddered from the huge power pack between his shoulders and every second step was accented with a clang as his chain axe staff slammed down into the rockcrete of the road.

The procession faltered slightly as the vanguard of Terminators took a moment to savage their way through a fallen column. The mighty dreadnought threw up its fist, crunching the fingers together in impatience. A burst of static broke over the chanting and a heavily synthesised voice boomed down the street.

++ Warning before stopping young Uron! I will surely kill those brothers before me, for I shall step upon them before I have noticed them! Onwards, I cry, onwards! ++

There was a break of laughter down the line of the Astartes and Demeter was shocked to the bone that such death knights could find humour within themselves.

There was an almighty crack of thunder and a puff of dust from the unseen head of the procession and the march resumed.

' Magnificent isn't it? '

The new voice was deep, earthy and right next to Demeter's ear. He yelped in shock and almost dropped his auto rifle, Lesker scrambled upwards to bring his lasgun to bare on the intruder to their moment. His fingers faltered and his eyes rose up to meet the dark red ones of the new comer. The warrior was about a foot taller than either man, thick combat fatigues obscured his muscular legs, iron shod boots propping his form upon the raised rubble. An un-hooded chainmail coif obscured his neck, pooled in folds about his shoulders. Bulky carapace armour of black, trimmed in red protected his shoulders and upper chest from blade and ballistic. A pair of multi-purpose vision goggles were pushed up upon the top of his head, forcing his rich blonde hair back over his head. A ragged cloak of tattered urban camo was slung over his shoulders and between his gloved hands was clutched an immense shotgun.

Lesker stammered with words, but Demeter nodded, unable to speak.

The Astartes scout auxiliary smiled, revealing sharp fangs and razor sharp teeth. He had crept up upon the two guardsmen unseen and unheard. Lesker caught a flicker of movement and when he focused his attention, four other scouts were picking their way up the rubble with the ease of an acrobat. Demeter could feel his leg begin to tremor, the hairs upon the back of his neck raising. Lesker voiced his thoughts, his voice barely audible and broken.

' You're not human...'

The Astartes laughed, the sound short and bark like. He turned to survey the end of the march and then turned back to the two mortals.

' Nay, brave Guardsmen, we are not. '


	12. Chapter 12

' We thank you, the People of Lexmar, for this great honour you do to us. '

Uron Malefictus, Chapter Master of the Knights Vermillion, bowed to the human. Even upon bended knee's he was as a giant to a child in comparison to the newly instated governor. The human, decked in his purple sash held a chalice clutched within his hands, a broad, if forced, smile upon his face. The pacification of the rebel forces had been swift and brutal and although the Astartes had reduced most of the capitol city to rubble, the ruling parties were grateful. They had offered to erect monuments or bedeck the Marines armour in precious jewels, but all had been refused except one thing. The offer of Blood.

Each civilian, each citizen of the world left alive donated a vial of blood, finding whatever serf or servant of the noble Astartes.

The procession of warriors had stopped on the parade ground before the palace, the huge Thunderhawk gunships awaiting to carry them back to the Dominator which waited in orbit. The huge form of Brother Tyrus had proceeded to clamber into the first of the gunboats, clamping his huge armoured form into his magnetic throne. The techmarine and the Dreadnoughts personal entourage secured themselves in around him, awaiting the command squad to mount up.

Uron, the Red Death lifted his clawed gauntlets to his head, popping the seals upon the black death mask upon his helmet. The mouth grille was a screaming mouth, needle sharp teeth glinting in gold. The eyes ghosted a red glare from within them and covering the lower half of the mask was a port cullis armoured plate. There was a puff of condensation and he lifted the helm clear of his features.

The human swallowed down the slab of fear in his throat and something primal whispered into the back of his mind, that the last thing he should do, is run.

The Chapter Master resembled the devil. His skin was like parchment, his hair had long ago deserted his skull. The colour of his eyes were like staring into hell itself, swirling pits of every shade of red and blood. He parted the thin lines of his lips to reveal every single tooth, each one had been filed into sharp fangs. There were thick black words tattooed upon his skin, scrolling litanies which disappeared down beneath the collar of his gorget.

He lifted his hands forward and received the chalice from the governor.

' To the Emperor and His people. '

His voice was like the earth splitting, a rumble of thunder in the heavens or to some, the snarl of daemons. He offered a smile which made the human shudder, then tipped the cold rim of the chalice to his lips and swallowed down the hot, sticky blood. After a long moment he handed the chalice back and whispered a small prayer of thanks, then rose. The bulk of his jump pack should have hindered the deft movement but after centuries, Uron had even made such a movement graceful.

He fixed his helm back in place and turned his shoulder to the human, his vox unit rasping into life.

++ Should you ever require our assistance again, you know the price. ++

Uron turned into his awaiting command Astartes and marched into the gunship in silence.

The Knights Vermillion gunships roared into the stratosphere and out into the horizon of blackness and void.

The rumble of the engines punished each warriors hearing, until Chaplain Grakar decided to break the sound.

++ M'lord. I implore you to atomise the city from orbit. ++

There was a burst of noise from the rest of the Marines in the lead gunship, some crying out in opposition, some declaring their support. Brother Tyrus forced a burst of static through the vox link, demanding silence while he spoke. The dreadnoughts heavy voice boomed in the confined space of the gunship.

++ Folly, I say. Master Grakar you are short minded and still young. You are too full of fire and fury to realise the scale of what it is we crusade for. ++

Uron turned his head.

++ Why, Brother Grakar, would you have me destroy those who we have just liberated? ++

The Chaplain ignored the Veteran Brother and addressed his Master.

++ Heresy took root, deep into the population. I feel it will strike again, and soon. We must crush any trace of it from the surface of the planet. Starting with the city. ++

Tyrus reared up in his harness, the groan of steel screeching in the troop hold.

++ Starting with the city? You have truly lost yourself in madness Grakar! You mean to bathe the Lexmarians in fire because of one rebellion? ++

++ ENOUGH. ++

The voice destroyed any rebuke upon the Marines lips.

Uron turned to look between the command squad and a rumbling snarl hissed from his vox grille.

++ I understand what Grakar is asking, but I will not condone such destruction unless absolutely necessary. This fortress will dock at the Gandhra Station to re-arm and re-fuel. We shall pass back this way and I will establish a link with the surface. If I discover that even a morsel of heresy has taken route once more, I shall ruin the planet of all life. Now speak no more of this. In fact, as it is, you will all pray in silence until we are docked. Begin. ++

Each Brother held their words and turned inwards into their minds to recite various different prayers or mantra's.

The Chaplain curled his lip behind his visor as he gazed upon the Chapter Master. It appeared the Knights core was becoming soft. Such a pity.


	13. Chapter 13

Indrik stood watching the slumbering form of the Dreadnought sarcophagus, his eyes fixed upon the frost covered chains that bound it. His helmet was clamped to his belt and his arms were folded across his broad chest, his taloned fingertips brushing lightly against the winged skull there. His short forked beard was brittle with ice flecks and his skin was dusted with glittering crystals of cold. He was alone with the possessed, discounting the presence of the Sentinels, who hadn't moved since securing their guardian posts either side of the chained machine. The grey warriors stood in identical positions, their gauntlets upon the pommels of their zweihanded power blades. He studied them for a moment, these men whose sole devotion was to persecute the Psyker. They wore no markings denoting them part of the Vermillion brotherhood, except that of the Death company cross upon their right shoulder. Every other inch of their grey armour was bossed with prayers and blessings of faith. They were utterly driven men without any sense of the word compassion. They were ruthless killers and the Knights needed them.

Indrik gazed at the broad chest plate of the first Sentinel, it was bare except for a bronze bolt and a name embossed upon it in curled Gothic.

' Saul '

He flicked his eyes to the second one and read the name there, realising these men were not just blades, but something else entirely.

' Peytr '

Indrik recalled a memory long lost in the dusted libraries of his memory bank, from the time of his inception into the Chapter. There was a young boy from his village named Peytr and he had a twin brother named Saul. He knew he was most likely just speculating but was it possible for them to be those twins? He knew it was rare for twins to be incepted into the recruiting process, both must have shown remarkable combat skills. Yet, what was more perplexing was the impossible chance of the both of them retaining the Pariah gene. Two null-warriors born to the same mother and both accepting the Gene-seed? Indrik felt a touch of destiny upon the men before him.

' Magnificent, aren't they? '

Came the whisper from behind him. If he had been anyone other than a Space Marine he would have surely felt fear or shock. As it was, he simply turned to regard the new comer. The yawning portal behind the new visitor ground shut with the cacophony of chains and gears. The huge stone door rumbled back into place, completing the binding runes once more.

' Yes, Lord Judaiz. Truly the pinnacle of what it means to be a warrior. '

Lord Judaiz stepped up beside the Chaplain and the room suddenly seemed a little more darker. He was the head of the Sentinel Order, an ambitious man who according to the hear say of the upper echelons had his eyes on becoming the next Chapter Master. They controlled the fortress here upon the world of Armacia, operating a gulag of anti-psychic defence for the sector. If the Sentinels did not wish for the planets of the Knights Vermillion to be found, they would make it so. Armacia was a dead planet, a nuclear wasteland scoured uninhabitable by its proximity to the star it orbited. The Knights Vermillion retained their fortress monastery upon this barren rock, in the shell of a star ship that jutted from the planets crust like a mighty mountain. It was a vessel from before Old Night, dwarfing even the Grand Cruisers of the Imperial Navy. It was a home ship from the early days of Terra's space expansion. It had taken the first Knights of the Chapter many centuries to make it habitable enough for Space Marines but it now provided the most secure defensive point in the entire system. The chamber they were stood in was carved into the very rock of the planet itself.

' I hope to find more of our blessed brothers in the next Choosing. It has been too long and the mantle must be passed onto new blood, don't you think Lord Indrik? '

Indrik's red eyes narrowed for a brief fraction, he could smell the undertone in Judaiz words and it was sour to his senses. So blatant in his goals this one was and it disturbed the Chaplain to see such obvious power mongering.

' I think the Chapter prevails because it works together, brother shoulder to shoulder with brother. Sentinel and Knight stood together to face the darkness of wytchery. '

Judaiz spread a feral smile across his aquiline features. His nose was an eagles beak, hooked and sharp, his eyes were shrewd and calculating. His smile that of a vipers. He took several steps forward and unsheathed the blade at his hip, the blade instantly illuminating the room with a blinding white light, purple arcs of energy dancing along the blade. It was like staring into the sun. The Lord Sentinel lifted the weapon and dug its point into the ceramite of the Dreadnoughts front, a hissing filled the chamber and globs of molten armour splashed to the ground, freezing like candle wax.

' I agree, yet, were would the Chapter be if my honoured ancestor hadn't been there the moment the darkness swallowed the Chapter? Where would we all be if he hadn't struck down Luxor when he turned from the Light? '

Indrik's jaw tightened. He could almost feel Judaiz ego suffocating the air from the chamber. He understood the Sentinels point of opinion and the questions asked but they were about as subtle as a bolt round to the face and Indrik believe Judaiz was not adverse to doing such an action when it came to the shift of power. They could all feel it in the air, the Chapter Master was slipping in his control and it was only a matter of months at best before someone challenged him for the right of successor ship.

' What Luxor did pulled our brothers into darkness and damnation yes, but you can-'

Judaiz spun on the spot, the tip of his blade screeching along the Dreadnought and leaving a deep gouge in the frontal decoration. The blade stopped before the Chaplain, pointed like a marker for his hearts before Judaiz sheathed the mighty weapon. Indrik's hands curled into fists at his sides, his hand straying to his Crozius Arcanum.

' What Luxor did would have been the end of us all. You surely know the history, Chaplain? You teach it to the younglings! The first Librarian amongst our ranks and he plunges us into civil war. Badab was a disaster for us. We didn't even make it to the war because of Luxor's machinations...tell me the story Indrik. I beg thee. '

Indrik bared his teeth for a moment, the gesture clear before clearing his throat.

' Grandeur is not needed here, you know what happened. Luxor commanded our Chapters fighting forces alongside Malefictus, we were summoned to war and we departed in the mighty battle barges. The Dominator heading the fleet. Luxor's Bravery turned upon us exiting the warp to recalibrate our jump drives. We lost The Retribution and a quarter of the Chapters fighting strength. The Dominator was engaged in boarding actions by Luxor's Bravery and the blood toll was terrible. Luxor had triggered the death rage buried deep inside of us, turning fully a third of the chapter on what forces we had left. By the time it was ended and Uron had launched a counter attack upon the Bravery we had lost over half the Chapters fighting strength. Your ancestor, the First Sentinel slew Luxor after he had wounded Uron to the brink of death. We have been rebuilding our numbers since that war and scouring any trace of psychic activity from our brothers since. '

Judaiz was gloating by the end of the speech, his smile wicked and cruel. He stepped past Indrik and pressed his palm into the activation rune for the large stone door sealing the chamber, as it began to rumble aside he turned his head to glance at the Chaplain over his shoulder.

' Remember that the only reason this Chapter survived is because of us. Uron would do well to remember that as well. It is high time a new Malefictus was crowned head of our brothers, a new Uron with the clarity to know what this Chapter needs. '

Indrik turned to glare at the Lord Sentinel, his lip raised in a sneer and he spat his question.

' And that is what exactly? '

Judaiz stepped through the portal and smirked.

' Me. '

Then he was away from the chamber, the door grinding back into position. Indrik turned back to the Dreadnought and the Sentinels, still silently guarding the Psyker Machine. It seemed the Knights Vermillion was about to be consumed in the darkness once again and soon.


	14. Chapter 14

Scatos eyes were popping out of his skull, his face was pale and his mouth was downcast. He could not believe what he was seeing, he would not believe it. The images broke his small mind and shattered the fixation that the stars were merely the Emperors light. The stars were swirling giants of fire and he could see other planets, worlds that looked like Athena. When the Astartes had marched him and the other three aspirants upon the huge flying ship, with its massive yawning innards which swallowed the humans. Lord Valoran seemed at home, a smile across his misshapen but handsome features. This must be common place for him, Scato thought and it truly warped his perspective of the mighty warriors who protected his peoples. The legends were true, they did come from the stars. He couldn't help but stare around the inside of huge vessel, its engines destroying all sound inside the hold. Mikahil stared out of the porthole, his brows low set, his teeth bared. He seemed to be having a hard enough time dealing with what he saw.

However for the other two, that wasn't the case. Drummel was shouting animatedly at Lord Captain Valoran, spitting out questions until his voice became a garble of words all mashed together. Srala, a boy from one of the desert tribes was slack jaw and trying to stare out of everyone's viewing ports, speaking in his odd barbarian tongue.

Mikahil turned and sneered at the sand dweller, shifting to block his port hole, his eyes fixed down towards the surface of Athena and the blue haze that surrounded her.

Drummel Viskos squealed loudly and almost jumped out of his harness. They all spun to see what he was pointing wildly at and their faces were again smashed with shock. Valoran laughed, his deep voice wrestling the roar of the engines for supremacy. Scato felt his chest tighten and he found it hard to breath. The thing they were staring at was epic, vastly impressive and further destroyed his rather primitive view of the Astartes. It was a city, colossal and black, a huge blood red eagle spread across the impossibly massive ramming prow. Millions of tiny flecks of light glittered along its gargantuan length and when he squinted he could just make out scores of tiny space ships gliding in formation around it, like a shoal of fish around a massive torca in the toxic oceans of Athena. There was a humming that built in the air and the craft they were in began to vibrate. The vibration became a keening so vicious it nearly made their ears bleed. Scato clasped his hands to his head and stared as a massive circular opening upon the top of the ship began to glow with a bright red light. In the moment before it was painful to continue staring all sound was ripped away from the singular roar of the discharge. It was so deafening loud inside the craft that all hearing was silenced, his vision struck white from the glare of the weapon.

He blinked furiously and once his vision had returned he could see, what must have been millions of miles in the distance a flash that rivalled the massive star they had seen upon leaving Athena. He turned his head up in the viewing portal and he lost his breath once more. There were four other of the massive vessels arrayed in a formation above them and the craft he resided in was on an intercept course with the nearest above them, heading forward to a huge black opening that winked with distant lights.

He heard a clamour of noise behind him and strained round to see. Valoran had disengaged his harness lock and rose to a stand in the central corridor between benches. He gripped the overhead rails and pulled himself up the fuselage.

" HARKEN! Young aspirants! We make ready to dock with The Errant. You will keep silent at all times unless spoken to, understand. "

It wasn't even a question, but he did not doubt that once inside the mighty structure above them that they would all lose their speech.

His head began to swim the closer they got to the insanely vast ship and his vision greyed slightly. He could tell he was on the verge of passing out and he knew it was simply from the shock of what he was experiencing. He realised this ship was larger than any city-state upon Athena, and if this was a ship for the Astartes like the ships back on Athena were for his people, then he was truly terrified by the sheer scale of what else must be among the stars.


	15. Chapter 15

The cacophony of noise filled the air alongside gun smoke and misted blood. The crack of bolters, the thud of ballistics and the whine of rail guns. Vision was permanently scarred by blue streaks and muzzle flash. The high pitched whine of las guns flickered into the fray, slicing neat, smouldering holes into plastech armour and bubbling the blue flesh beneath. The Thunderhawk had become somewhat of a rally point for the scattered elements of the 130th Athenian Rifles, who used its vast bulk to shield their firing positions from the Crisis Suits weaving between the heavy weapons fire. Private Hesiod squeezed the firing stud of the auto rifle in his hands, sending kickbacks of death into whatever targets presented itself. The non-com to his left was screaming something into the fire fight, the waves of ash and grit muffling the words beneath the constant sound of war. Hesiod ran empty, his finger drawing the stud until it clicked, slamming the breach home empty. He promptly threw himself flat in the trench and thrust his hand into his flak jacket to retrieve another magazine. It took two attempts but he slotted the mag home in the gun fix and slapped it to lock it in place. He tugged on the load rod before rising once more to sight a target.

The non-com was screaming again. Hesiod narrowed his eyes and pushed his eye to the sight, the plastic of his protective visor thunking upon the steel of his rifle. His breathe came hard and ragged in his re-breather, sucking down barely purified air. A thunder crack split the heavens and something lanced down on a torrent of fire into the enemy trench lines. He couldn't tell, nor did he care what it was that caused the discord amongst the Tau, all he cared about was sighting a Tau and squeezing the trigger. The trooper to his right spun away from the firing step, a hole punched through his chest in a welter of bone fragments and sizzled flesh. The gap in the line was filled by another, a man who'd lost his re-breather mask and fought with a ragged strip of fabric tied about his face. A shout from his left caused him to break his line of sight, it wasn't the words shouted because the haze of noise obscured the orders, it was the tone of it. Hesiod felt his bowels loosen, his stomach tight for a moment before letting loose a wash of fear into his system. One of the remaining enemy battle suits that hadn't been shredded by heavy weapons fire descended into the trench on contrails of flaming plasma. It's cloven struts slammed into the blood soaked slurry of ash and innards. Las bolts scoured its armour black and bullets ringed and sparked against it's frame. It silently turned its guns to face down the trench and there was a terrible moment where Hesiod could see nothing but the heat ringed muzzle of the enemies repeater lasers. Then it opened fire.

The non-com fell apart. The laser fire shredded him with such ferocity his body literally crumbled into misted, charred flesh. Three men stationed around the non-com were riddled by the sweep of punishing fire. The comm. trooper went up in a ball of flame as the laser streams punched through the minuscule power pack in his vox unit. The Imperial charge had retaken the forward trenches the Tau had claimed. The Astartes and his contingent of Scouts had broken the pathfinder line and descended underground, now the Imperial men and women of the Athenian Rifles fought to hold the trench the shrine was located in. The crisis suit had come to test their strength. It spurted unceasing sheets of laser death into the ranks of men and women, punching and cutting holes through faces, arms, legs and chests. Hesiod flung himself down, the man to his left coming apart like wet paper to gush watery steaming blood down Hesiod's visor. His heart was thundering between his ears, the sound threatening to overwhelm him. Another noise penetrated the screams of his soul, a high pitched whine. He knew that sound, it was a particular whine, it was the start up sequence of a nuclear cell. Hesiod flung his head around to see the Trooper who'd stepped up to his right before the suit entered the trench. The man casually stood, feet planted apart in the centre of the trench and checked the read out display bolted to the side of the long body of his melta gun. The suit seemed to be more intent with picking off fleeing guardsmen and hadn't reacted to the threat before it, the thing twisted gracefully upon its axis to face away from Hesiod and the other trooper. It began punishing the other half of the trench line. The trooper hefted the weapon, braced himself and fired. There was almost no sound from the gun but it still gave the impression that it was deafening, rupturing blood vessels in the air with frequencies you could not detect. The gun nozzle suddenly glowed cherry red and then a vibrant beam of white radiation erupted from the weapon, it cut, like a straight line into the crisis suits unprotected flank and flashed the armour to steam and particles. The giant suit seemed to shudder before it capsized into the trench wall, sending up a plume of smoke and dirt.

Hesiod instantly felt sick. Being exposed to the radiation levels from such an intense beam was hazardous to his genetic makeup. He could taste metal in his throat as he pushed himself up to his feet. The trooper who'd fired adjusted something on the side of the weapons dials before turning to fire a strafing beam out over the trench top. The beam cut its way in a staggered line, scything down plastech armoured Tau warriors who'd used the distraction of the suit to advance upon the trench, or so Hesiod presumed. The first of the two Devil-Fish transports that had brought the Tau towards the trench was nose down, obscuring the enemies line from sight, it puffed huge plumes of oily black smoke into the sky. The second was strafing the line with its beam weapons, disgorging troops as it passed by on its hover bed. The fire warriors would step from the hatches in the side of the transport to land in crouched firing positions. The cutting beam of the melta found the flank of the transport and focused upon the upper left grav-engine. It erupted in a reactive chemical explosion, sending the transport veering off course. Hesiod raised his auto rifle and began to fire bursts at the fire warriors.

The Tau broke and ran. Directly at the Imperial line.

Hesiod was a hit by confusion. Why would the warriors with superior firing range give up their advantage? Unknown to Hesiod, due to their non-com and their vox trooper having been obliterated, a new foe had joined the fight. The streaks of flame that had descended upon the Tau lines were not another barrage of artillery as he had first expected. A high bass note filled the air from behind him and a ragged cheer erupted from the line of troopers, the Thunderhawk was back online. It fired it's retro thrusters upon it's bow, sending it rocking backwards out of the pit it had created with it's crash. Soil rained down upon the men as the massive gunship lurched to the right before slamming back into the earth. Upright this time, lights flickered on down its length and exhaust ports flushed clouds of gas and steam down its flanks. Then someone cried out in terror. Hesiod snapped his head back to see something lumber from behind the down Devil-Fish and almost lazily hack a fire warrior in half, the torso spiralling away in a spray of gore. The beast gripped the side of the transport and thrust it forward, the entire vehicle rolling and giving the Imperial line full view of what awaited them.

The tide of beasts strode forward, huge calibre guns kicking in their meaty fists, their bellows heralding their savage advance as they hacked and bludgeoned into the routed Tau. The trooper to Hesiod's right opened fire again, cutting down the first of the huge green brutes in a welter of super heated flesh. It roared as it died, as if it was offended by being killed at such range. The remaining men of Hesiod's unit all gripped their terror and shoved it under the years of rigorous training. Sheet fire began to lash out like viper strikes at the approaching brutes, las fire and auto guns strafing and streaking surface wounds, leading the stubbers and grenade launchers to targets. There was a thunder crack and the ground shook. A great gout of flame spread across the advancing Orks, igniting a number of them in bright pillars of chemical fire. Then heavy red lances of light punched into the first lumbering vehicles that crested the opposite trench, causing them to shatter and explode.

Another set of explosions tore into the ranks of green monsters, a sonic boom cutting through everyone's hearing. Missiles rained from the heavens and spread their wash of death amongst the Ork. Lance fire peppered the ground, connecting the second gunship with the floor in bursts of red death. The grind of rotary cannons flared up and the buzz of thousands of bullets streaking the ground was a beautiful sight to Hesiod. In the brutal alpha strike from the Thunderhawks, Hesiod and the others of the first gun trench failed to notice the steady retreat of the Imperial forces, the rest of the lines had bled backwards to the artillery positions, the command echelon deciding the fate of Hesiod's unit. They were ordered to die honourable deaths to slow the horde, even though they didn't know it.

The airborne gunship came back for another pass while the grounded one spat chemical death into the earth. The remaining Fire Warriors had been obliterated between the trench and the advancing Orks, who were now the target of the punishing onslaught. Yet, it seemed to do little to slow the tide of green racing forwards.

"Bastards!"

The trooper to his right snarled through his ragged face scarf. Hesiod turned his head to where the man was looking. They had been abandoned.

The thick shapes of Leman Russ assault tanks disappeared through the wash of smoke and dust towards the huge Mechanicum bastion in the distance. The Athenian Rifles had withdrawn in the face of the horde to the protective walls of the bastion to re arm and dig in, leaving their front rank for dead. Hesiod realized his life was worth nothing more than for some young officer to retreat all that much quicker while he paid for yards in blood. Anger bubbled inside him, rage and hatred. The firing line stopped, only random beams of las fire and tracer rounds cutting into the Ork. Most troopers were rooted to the spot, fear, real fear and terror swallowing their tactical minds. They had been left to die, to be butchered by the xenos. Hesiod was having none of it.

"Right, you slack jawed fraks! Form firing line, spread Teuton!"

The sudden shock of orders where there had been none for a long time snapped soldiers from their personal dooms. They rushed forwards, the Thunderhawks war cries rallying their courage. They formed into two ragged lines upon the firing step, guns poised and braced. Hesiod stamped forward down the line, he thrust his rifle at a weapon less trooper and shoved the man onto the step. He wasn't going to die like a dog for some Athenian highborn. No, he was going to die like a frak damned hero of the Imperium. He went to drawn his side arm, but his boot clashed against something in the mud. He stooped to discover a bolter. The weapon, obviously having belonged to the regiments commissar lay discarded. Hesiod snatched it up and checked the breach, then the ammo count. He grinned savagely and took to the firing step beside the trooper with the melta.

"First fire, ready!"

The whine of las guns charged to full capacity filled the ears. The Orks were close enough now that Hesiod could see the bulging veins in the foremost creatures neck. He smiled viciously.

"FIRE!"

The sheet of red and orange beams, inter cut by green washed into the Orks. Beasts went down, trumpeting and roaring as they died. Smaller creatures that loped between the Orkish advance were pitched off their feet.

"Second fire, ready!"

The second line picked targets and the first line dropped down to re charge their las weapons.

"FIRE!"

Hesiod screamed into the air as the Thunderhawks opened up again, the second gunship having strafed one last time before coming to land behind the trench, its guns still ablaze. The assault ramp began to grind open.

The second torrent of fire from the Teuton firing position was where the effectiveness came from. The sheet of las fire that proceeded this burst of destruction was merely a distraction and a buffer, now the real slaughter work began. At once, the heavy stubbers to either side of the trench spun into action, every auto rifle spat lead death in continuous fire, melta beams speared out, cutting like surgeons. Two flamers roared and spat boiling promethium into the killing ground, setting Orks alight.

He braced the bolter in his hands and pulled the trigger. The kick back of the weapon winded him, but he felt elation none the less. It was a battle craze, the content humour of a man who knew death was inescapable. They would make the enemy pay for their deaths. The bolter kicked again, the crack of the bolts adding to the wave of fire.

"First fire, fire at will!"

The re armed troopers of the first gun line sprang up to pump beam after beam into the enemy. The world became filled with shredding death and Hesiod knew that when the Orks reached their line, the frustration at being denied their killing thus far, would send the xenos into berserk rage.

The assault ramp was down.

"Squad Tacticus! Compliment the Guardsmen!"

The voice sent a cold creep up Hesiod's spine. The voice was clipped, distorted and clinical. Cold, helmet bound. He half turned to see armoured giants striding into the trench. Some of the soldiers stopped firing, simply too shocked by the arrival of Astartes. Coming to terms with potential salvation. Hesiod wandered why these brave angels would seek the same fate that awaited the guardsmen, then realized he'd stopped firing. He renewed his assault of the enemy with vigour, as did the rest of the troopers. Their blanket of fire became all that more intense as the fury of eight bolters, a plasma rifle and a heavy bolter were added to the fray. The plasma gun spat sizzling bolts of lightning into the faces of Orks, toppling them as their faces bubbled to gas. The heavy bolter began its chattering report of fire, thrusting the mini rockets out on their firing paths and into Ork flesh at double the rate of the standard bolters. The Ork advance faltered for a moment, shredded in the sheer volume of weapons fire from the small Imperial force. The Thunderhawks close range heavy bolters joined the battle, auto targeting servitors spraying lines of stuttered fire across the killing field.

Then the Orks charged. The Astartes stopped firing, only the heavy bolter continuing his punishing barrage. Each armoured giant stowed their ranged weapons by mag-locking them to their belted waists. The sound that followed was like a whisper in the rage around them. Blades were bared, short fighting blades, superior for close quarters combat. Combat shields were unhooked from where they hung upon power packs and suddenly at the lip of the trench was a shield wall. The Astartes, their ceramite armour decked in chain mail tabards, their heads helmed with portcullis fronts all faced the enemy. Then the Orks hit the trench and the butcher work began.

Screams and grunts filled the air. The Astartes stepped back just as the first berserker's met them, robbing the Orks of their initial power, their momentum drained.

"STEP!"

The Space Marines moved as one, smashing their shields into tusked faces and stabbing and hacking with their short blades. The xeno's fell. Orks bellowed as they dropped into the trench to be met with defiance. Fear and terror had vanished and now a fury only human kind possessed was born. Mortal men were battering Orks about the face with rifle butts or plunging combat blades into groins and knees. The huge brutes would crush and cleave into the humans but they would not break. The Orks seemed to intensify their assault.

Hesiod dodged a cleaver, the huge weapon, as big as him, slammed into the soil. He fired the bolter point blank into the leering face of the brutish Ork and watched it's head blow out in chunks. The creature toppled backwards to reveal a gaggle of small green creatures, the height of Hesiod's shoulder, advancing in a pack upon the closest troopers. He was about to engage when the sergeant from the Astartes squad waded amongst them, kicking and slamming with his shield, his power axe cleaving steaming wounds into their gretchin creatures. A furious minute passed, a minute of death and hacking. Then it was over. The Orks lay dead. Hesiod was smashed with a sudden fatigue and stumbled, gripping the wall of the trench for balance. He took in the scene. The dead were everywhere, guts and innards, gore, bones and jellied brains coated everything and standing in the sea of cloven corpses was a line of Astartes, blood smeared and undaunted.

Less than half of Hesiod's unit remained. Sixty five men and women had been slaughtered in less than a minute. He turned his weary eyes to stare blankly across the killing field past the trench. The Ork advance had stopped when the Teuton firing pattern had pummelled the vanguard to nothing. Leaving the remaining rabble of the vanguard to crash into the Imperial trench. Hesiod fixed his eyes upon a towering figure in the centre of the green sea before him. The attack they had just weathered was insignificant to what was coming towards them. He yawned. Utterly uncaring at the death that was swiftly approaching in the shape of the Ork horde. That was when he noticed the Astartes begin the retreat back to the grounded Thunderhawks. Hesiod frowned and followed a flurry of movement to his right.

Appearing from the curve of the trench line was another armoured giant, followed by four tabarded scouts. One was unconscious and carried upon the shoulders of his brother, two carried between them a huge metal crate, the strain on their super human features evident. The new sergeant seemed to regard the Ork horde for a moment before laughing and shaking his head. He swept past Hesiod, the sound of clinking chain following in his wake. The small contingent climbed from the trench and approached the other Space Marines. The two sergeants clasped gauntlets, the scouts slammed fists against their carapace armour in echo of the larger Astartes. Hesiod found himself climbing from the trench and approaching the Astartes. Gunfire had picked up once more from the remains of the Imperial Guard, complimented by the Thunderhawks.

"Sergeant Tiberius, praise the Emperor you are unscathed."

"Praise him well, Haethe, for I bring history to our Chapter. "

"Acknowledged, let us return to the Errant before this xenos invasion draws closer. Presae is lost, Chapter orders are to withdraw and bolster the fleet. Achilles and Tybalt intend to meet the Ork hulk and destroy it."

"I need transport back to Armacia once we have docked with the Errant. I want to see this one personally to the Chaplaincy, brother."

"I shall inform Tybalt when we are within communiqué range to have a rapid transport ready for you, brother. Come, let us leave this place."

"But, what about us?"

Both Astartes turned as one, looking down upon this blood stained and ragged human soldier who dared interrupt their words. The Trooper stared at them with wide eyes through his visor, his voice heavy through his re-breather.

"You can't just abandon us to die like our officers! You're Space Marines!"

Sergeant Haethe furrowed his brow beneath his helm and opened a closed vox to Tiberius.

Hesiod could feel a muscle in his leg spasm as an odd mix of fear and adrenaline rushed inside him. Confronting the Orks in close combat hadn't raised as much trepidation in him as talking to the faceless giants before him did. They seemed silent for a moment before they both nodded. The new contingent of Astartes filed up into the first Thunderhawk, the second unit marching into the second. The sergeant of the tactical squad spoke once to Hesiod before boarding the Thunderhawk himself.

The Hesiod was screaming at his men, shouting and kicking at them.

"Into the bastard Thunderhawks now! Move it you dogs, move it!"

They didn't need to be told twice. Men scrambled for the haven offered by the troop holds of the Thunderhawks that still poured fire into the advancing Ork horde. Hesiod raced up the open ramp of the nearest gunship and all but flung himself into the grav bench between the unmasked melta gunner and a towering, muscle bound Scout who regarded Hesiod with crimson red eyes. The men of the Athenian Rifles had stood their ground, ready to die, accepting their death and making it glorious and worthy of fighting for the Emperor of Mankind. Yet, now salvation reared its head and their valiant stand was forgotten, reality crashed back into their souls and so, shaken and wretched, they pulled at each other to get inside.

The two gunships shuddered into life, their engines roaring and blackening the earth behind them as they began to lift off. Rockets and beam weapons stabbed out at the craft as they rose above the Ork swarm. The first Thunderhawk sputtered smoke from a ragged tear in its fuselage, the second releasing one last torrent of fire into the greenskins before both gunships roared up into the sky and towards the waiting fleet beyond.

Hesiod sank into the grav bench, hugging the harness about him as his world shuddered violently and he was deafened by the roar of the engines. The guardsmen grinned stupidly and cheered each other and their saviours, unaware of the fate the Astartes of the Knights Vermillion had in store for the Troopers of the 130th Athenian Rifles.


	16. Chapter 16

The Thunder Hawk shuddered, the sound inside the troop hold a roar of engines. The grav harness that held Brother Virgil steady clattered against the wing bossed front plate of his cuirass. He stared through the dark blue visor plates of his helmet, not entirely focused upon the world before him. His mind was turned inwards, the glow of his tactical HUD setting a green flare up his pale face. He couldn't tear his thoughts from the savagery his brothers had committed. He had known that the Death Company were little more than mindless beasts, so locked in their own torment that not even the other Knights could approach them. They had to be deployed separately upon the battlefield to prevent in-Chapter casualties.

Virgil was fresh from the Chapters rigorous training regime. Having completed his decade of Squire training he had been released from Brother Sergeant Tiberius to make the journey back to Athena. From there he remembered the silent and terror gripping journey to the mysterious Chapter Bastion upon Armacia, the dead planet closest to the home systems star. It was his first time inside the immense goliath of a ship that the Astartes had converted into a fortress, buried in the crust of the planet. His Scout training and the introduction of the various chemical enhancements and gene organs had been carried out aboard the Dominator. The Black Carapace, required for his interaction with the hallowed Power Armour was inserted beneath his skin within the Mechanicum vaults inside the Armacian ship-bastion.

He remembered those dark hallways and shiver inducing techno mages, their cold, clinical touch and the cloying smog of incense in the air. This was his first campaign. His first chance to wield his sword in combat alongside the Chapter. He just hadn't predicted the Astartes he revered would be so blood hungry. To look at them now, he would never have imagined they were howling, ravenous beasts merely hours before. He focused his eyes through his helmet to fix upon the brother directly opposite him. The man had both blood covered gauntlets clasped before him as if in prayer. He held a small icon upon a chain, hidden between his palms and from the movements of his head he was muttering to himself within the confines of his helm.

Virgil could feel a twist in his stomach. It had been there ever since the combat had begun. His throat had dried up and his hands had begun to shake. He had dismissed the weakness, putting it down to seeing such a grim business conducted by those he'd been convinced to venerate. He shook his head slowly as he watched the brother praying. What could he be praying for? Virgil was suddenly disgusted with himself and his Chapter. They deserved to be damned.

++ Brother Argon does not pray. ++

The voice cut into his helmet, the voice warped by the vox static. Virgil saw the bead had come from his unit sergeant, Kastus. He turned his head to see Kastus sat two men down from Argon.

++ He centres himself, Virgil. It is something we all must do. You shall too one day, when you feel the call. ++

Virgil, who did not wear a chain mail tabard turned his black torso towards his sergeant, the red trim chipped and exposing the metallic sheen of the ceramite beneath. Virgil was entitled to his tabard upon the return to the Dominator, now that he had been baptised in the fires of war.

++ What call? ++

Virgil snapped, his teeth feeling too large for his mouth in that moment. He felt hot and cloyed inside his helmet and lifted his hands to disengage the locks keeping it in place. He wrenched the armour from his head, revealing a boyishly handsome face, high cheekbones accenting piercing red eyes. A short crop of blonde hair was smoothed back over his head with oils and wax.

++ I shall ignore your humours this one time Virgil as you are on a learning curve. ++

Kastus lifted his own blood stained gauntlets and removed his helm, revealing a face much the same as Virgil's, yet a ragged puckered scar distorted his upper lip and left cheek. It gave the sergeant the appearance of a constant sneer and revealed pink gum and a long silver plated fang.

"The call of our Chapters legacy Virgil, surely you remember the fate of blessed Sanguinius. "

Virgil bowed his head slightly, taking his eyes from his sergeant, who continued to bore his eyes into the top of Virgil's blonde hair. Virgil nodded, his bitterness subsiding as he thoughts came unbidden to his mind's eye. The epic confrontation of their beloved father against his traitor brother and the death echo that each of them felt. Some of the Templari claimed the Knights Vermillion felt the thirst for vengeance even worse than their father Chapter, the Blood Angels. Not from some sense of pious justice, but from the degraded state of their genetic strain.

"Each of us can control the blessing inside us, but each of us have different levels of control, Virgil."

He pointed towards Argon and then two men down to Brother Kadon, who gripped his grav harness as if it was a life line, his helmet covered head pushed back and titled upwards so he was staring at the metal roofing above his head.

" Argon remembers his sword mantra's from his days upon Athena, it helps to bring his rage back to balance. Kadon shuts his connection to his armour out from his immediate control, allowing his body to wear itself out. Each of us deal with our legacy in our own private way. You will too, when you feel the call of our blood. "

Virgil turned from regarding brother Kadon and fixed his light red eyes into the sergeants deep crimson ones. His features had lost the sharpness from before and he offered his palms flat side up to his sergeant.

"I apologise for my lack of restraint m'lord. I was never appraised of how badly it affects our brothers, I had heard rumours but I am struggling to accept what is in store for myself."

Kastus nodded sagely and waved off Virgils expression of repentance. He cast his eyes down the assembled brothers inside the troop hold, all ten of his Knights had come from the Lexmar incident unscathed. He offered a silent thanks to the Emperor for such a blessing. Then he looked back to Virgil, studying the young Marines face. He felt the slightest tug of a smile begin to pull his lips as he remembered back to his first campaign, six decades back against the Ork. He regarded Virgil thoughtfully before speaking again.

"You shall report to the reclusiarchum for four hours of supplication to the shrine of Sanguinius and our Great Father. I shall meet you there after your allotted genuflection time and we shall discuss more on this matter."

Virgil bowed his head once more, a lock of his oiled hair coming free to swing down his features. He thanked his sergeant and settled back into his grav harness, holding his armoured fingers upon his thighs. His mind turned inwards once more to thoughts of himself tearing and rending flesh in a way such as his brothers and he frowned.

"Virgil."

The voice of Kastus came again and Virgil turned his head, expecting the lecture to continue.

"Congratulations on earning your tabard. "

Virgil couldn't help the smile that came unbidden to his lips, revealing his pearl white fangs. The punishment within the Templari sanctum seemed less bothersome after the sergeants praise. He lifted his head as the loud hailer within the compartment announced their approach to the Dominators docking bay.

The fleet of black and red Thunder Hawks glided into the open bays along the huge space bound fortress. The might of the First, Second and Tenth company returning from their liberation of the Lexmar system.


	17. Chapter 17

17

Scato could barely breathe. His skin was on fire, crawling, itching and damp. His palms were clammy and his mouth was dry. He gripped the cracked and faded leather padding of the seat he'd been ordered to remain in. Valoran, the towering warrior who had conveyed them to this giant star spanning fortress had gone, deep into the depths of the vaulted archways and hissing corridors. The room the young men had been deposited in was huge, bigger than any state chamber back on Athena, not even Ser Bardus, who over ruled Trojas in the Astartes stead, owned such a room. His strained eyes took in the deep shadows pooling at the apex of the archways lining the room at regular intervals. The shadows seemed to squirm and move and more than once his frightened brain convinced him that tiny red eyes were watching him. His once small mind had been rudely and instantly broadened to the fact he was very insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. He could see similarities in the architecture of the room to the bastion he had served his squire-hood in back on his home world below. It felt oddly familiar yet entirely alien.

Mikahil was scowling again, it seemed to be a permanent fixture upon his heavy brow. His small eyes held a cruel glint as he scanned the room and the others around him. They had been conveyed from the gargantuan bulk of the Thunder Hawk to this holding area. The men they had passed were either barded in red trimmed black body suits and strange visors, shouting and bawling in a strange tongue at each other, going about things Mikahil had no understanding of. He passed the hulking, silent knights of the Astartes, stomping their armoured forms down twists and turns in the mind numbingly vast hallways. Creatures, half man and half made of steel and brass seemed to glide along the floor, robed in deep crimson hoods, long snakes of iron snapping and clicking at the young men. Valoran had said something in his strange language and the creatures shambled on, casting longing gazes at the youths with cold, glittering eyes.

Mikahil shuddered at the recent memory, his scalp crawled under his hair and he scratched at it profusely. His eyes tracked back along the room, pulled from the deep shadows above him by motion to his right. Drummel Viskos, a low born, peasant, scum. The boy, skinny and gaunt compared to his perfect breeding was ungainly to his eyes and shouldn't even be speaking in his presence. He couldn't help the grunt that escaped his long thin lips as the boy came past, he curled his lip in a smirk as he thrust his supple booted foot forward, tripping the peon in a tangle of limbs.

Drummel wouldn't let the highborn scorn detract from the utter and overwhelming excitement and elation he felt. He could trip him all day, pummel him, whip him and bash his head in, it mattered not. This place, these people, he was among the stars! In the night sky, beside the glowing orb of the Great Fathers eye upon a floating city made of metal. His breathing came light and fast as he scrambled back into a standing position, he simply grinned in response to the nobles scowls, drawing a hiss of insults from the larger boy. He was touching everything, be it a chipped floor tile or a stained leather chair, one of four rows along the walls. He came past one of the two highborn and placed his hands against the cool metal of the wall, leaning forward to push his face against it. He grinned with a slack jaw and made a happy sigh as closed his eyes, this place, it felt beyond amazing.

"Nothing on Athena can compare to this, good riddance I say." He mumbled along the cold steel.

"Hold your filth, peasant."

There was a touch of breeze against his neck, the very faintest of feelings.

He spun, ducking low as the brutes fist crashed into the metal where his face had been pressed. The strike exacted a yowl of pain from the larger boy but Drummel was trusting his instincts from this point on. His hand jabbed out, extended fingers catching the other in the hollow of his throat. Mikahil reeled backwards, clutching at his throat as he sucked in air. The other highborn, the one with the injured arm was up out of his seat and shouting, pleading with them. The sand dweller just simply watched from his solitary corner of the room. Drummel flicked his hand down to a familiar spot upon his ankle, feeling his fingers curl tightly around the slim wrapped handle of a stiletto. It came free from his boot, metal flashing almost as much as the intent in the lowborn's eyes.

"Enough."

The voice boomed around the room, crashing between the archways and stopping them all in their motions. Mikahil glared about him with a strained face, rubbing his throat. Scato checked himself, turning in shock to face the speaker. Drummel kept himself low, his fingers flexing around the knife. Srala, the sand dweller simply watched, a tight small smile playing his dark lips.

"There will be none of this under my tutelage. The blade, now."

The voice suddenly became stark reality as a figure detached itself from the deep shadows in the corner of the wide room. The man they now looked at was different to the handsome might of Valoran, the Astartes they liaised with back upon the planet. Where Valoran was broad and powerful this man was sleek and ghostly, like a phantom. His body was snug within a skin tight black body glove, it highlighted the curves and ripples of his body beneath. Plating his shoulders and chest were interlocking plates of crimson armour, scorched and gouged along the shoulders, a small chipped crater above where the youth's presumed his heart would be. His features were dagger sharp, his eyes two slits of red, missing nothing. His hair was a ragged mop of black strands, a thick black leather strap with strange viewing glasses pushing the mane of hair up from his face. The man held out an arm, the muscles under his skin moving like pistons, his gloved fingers came forward, palm up.

Drummel flickered his quick eyes from this phantom to the highborn staring hatred right into him. He made his choice and surrendered the thin blade into the others hand. As he stood, he came to fully appreciate just how talented this new comer was. Drummel had grown up in the under city of Trojas, in the dark alleys and stinking meat houses away from the protected boulevards of the highborn. Down there, men made their own laws and every day was a blessing if you awoke still breathing. His ability to notice the unnoticeable had been shaken. This man, bigger than all of them and wearing armour at that, had managed to evade their senses entirely.

The man curled his fingers around the dagger, stowing it within one of the many large black boxes secured to his wide kidney belt. He passed his blood red eyes over the assembled boys and gestured to the row of seating directly opposite him. Drummel and Srala moved quick, Scato hesitated and Mikahil glared.

"Sit."

The phantom insisted. So did the hand he laid upon gnarled wood carved grip extending from one of the odd shaped boxes upon his belt. Mikahil considered his options and chose to seat himself away from the others. Scato let out a held breathe and eased himself alongside the low born. The phantom before them nodded and placed both hands upon his strong hips.

" I am Squire Gellus, tasked by Master Tiberius to put you in your place. I am now in command of you and all of your thoughts and actions. For all intent and purpose, you are mine. "

The boys kept silent, all except Mikahil, who stood, defiance in his eyes.

"I am of house Kanatch, I demand to be afforded station above such...lesser people."

He turned to gesture towards the others and when he looked back, all he saw was red. The Squire, this Gellus, had crossed the space between them in the blink of an eye, Mikahil could feel the skin of the man's nose pressing against his own. His voice was low, dangerous.

"You will sit, child and you will know your place amongst the equals beside you."

Mikahil opened his mouth, the words never came. He was suddenly twisted, finding himself facing the floor, his arms hauled up behind his back, pulled into an unnatural position. The pain was blinding and he struggled to breathe. In the space of second he had been completely disabled.

"This is not Athena, boy. You are lower than the warp rats infesting the engineering deck, boy. I afford them more credit than you. It seems even after enduring the trials set before you, you cannot count these boys as your brothers. I pity you, shitling. I pity you. "

He was released, crashing into the black and white checker tiles beneath him. His head reeling.

Squire Gellus stood before them as Mikahil peeled himself from the floor and threw himself down once more into his seat, sucking breath into his punished lungs. The man's eyes were hard, calculating and full of contempt.

"You are no longer highborn, you are no longer lowborn, nor a sand rat. You are all aspirants, chosen by Lord Valoran for the chance to become something more than a mere Athenian. You have the chance to become as mighty as those you honour and worship. You have the chance, to become Astartes."

That held them, sure enough. Valoran had only ever taught them they would become warriors to serve the Knights Vermillion. They assumed they would travel with the Knights, helping them vanquish their mythical enemies. To be appraised that they would in fact become Astartes, become like Valoran, silenced them and entirely chilled them to their soul.

Gellus curled his lip at their collective faces, revealing sharp, ivory fangs. His voice was little more than a savage growl.

"Yet first, you have to prove your worthy to pick the Ork shit from my boot."


	18. Chapter 18

18

It had been months since the Dominator left orbit above the commercial world of Lexmar Prime. The huge space bound fortress rumbled its way through real space, those aboard the old leviathan enjoying the brief respite from either liberation actions or assassination detail for the Ultima fleet. The Dominator had docked with the hexathedral station hanging in fixed orbit over the dead world of Tesla Prime. Like a swarm of insects the mechanicum engineers and tech priests descended upon the ancient war ship to replace blown components and even one of the gargantuan plasma drives that powered the vast craft. Uron Malefictus, Chapter Master, spent those months looking inwards at his Chapter. As mighty as they believed themselves to be, their strength lay in their numbers and numbers is something they did not have. At the height of the Badab war, Imperial forces had deployed several Astartes Chapters, dedicating the entire fighting forces to descend upon the Lamenter and Astral Claw rebellion. The Knights never made it thus far to engage, not far from the Dominators current position the Chapters singular Librarian, given charge of fully half the Chapter succumbed to the temptations of the Warp. None know what enticed him to twist the minds of his brothers so that they became slavering and ravaged beasts but from that point on the gene-seed was ruined beyond genetic repair.

Uron remembered those days as the Chapter dropped out of warp space into the blackness between stars to punish itself with treachery and blood. He had slain many of his brothers, furious in their blood lust. The weight hung heavy upon him and so did the fact that victory was not his. He had led the final push into the other battle barge while the strike cruisers engaged each other around the two huge hulks. A tide of feral and twisted marines swarmed the corridors as the First Company and the Chapter command had cleaved their way to the heart of the ship. They found Luxor, his body bloated and his soul sold. Icons daubed the walls in fecal matter and clotted blood, flies and wriggling, fat worms and maggots were crushed under foot. Two great wings, like those of a sand-roach had cracked open the rear of the Librarians armour. He burbled a laugh at Uron and fixed his multifaceted eyes upon the Chapter Master. He had raised his staff.

Uron had almost died that day, he should have died that day. He had lost a heart, a lung and almost half his torso, his left side punched out and shattered the portable reactor upon his back. His suit had slammed lifeless to the floor as cold green wytch light ghosted around the wound. In his last moments of consciousness he'd seen the newly honour Chapter Champion Serbus draw his blade, Uron remembered a touch of cold, so frozen that crystals formed in the air and he watched Serbus slay Luxor. Something he could not have done. He had survived and formed the Templari to safeguard the Chapter. The ever vigilant Chaplains who nurtured the young warriors recruited into the Chapters ranks. No matter how fast they harvested aspirants, the cycle rate of those who could handle the volatile gene-seed was far from high. As a result the Chapter had been reduced to four functioning Companies. The First, Second, Eight and Tenth. All other Chapters had been cannibalised to bolster the other companies to near full strength, the Company commanders returned to the Athena system to begin rebuilding from the ground up.

Their founding lay back in the Age of Apostasy, those dark and savage days where the Ecclesiarchy had ruled with an iron fist, bringing fire and death to so many of the Imperial worlds. They had been created in secret, an experimentation of heretical proportions involving the mighty gene-seed of the Blood Angels and the noble Imperial Fists. Uron did not know what madness had gripped the Cardinal, whatever be his name, and the Mechanicum bioengineers but they had tried to stabilise the inherent flaws. The Astartes of Dorn hadn't survived the diabolical experiments and his life perished so that ultimately the gene of Dorn diluted out of the Knights genetic makeup. Two Blood Angels, both having been exiled from their Chapter upon penitent crusades fared more than the Fist. The unsanctioned creation of an Astartes Chapter did not go unnoticed and it drew down the gaze of the Inquisition. A sizable force intercepted the Cardinals smaller fleet and lay siege to the crafts, gaining entry into the Mechanicum bio-ship. The Inquisition encountered inner turmoil as the surviving Blood Angel led a force of freshly created Space Marines in battle against their creators.

With the Cardinal put to death and the Mechanicus heretics executed the Inquisition turned its attentions to the Space Marines. Two Lords reviewed the super human warriors, one Lord, Bathor, pushed for their destruction, deeming them to be unclean. The second Lord, Adrianus, had their minds searched and their bodies studied extensively before pulling rank upon Bathor and declaring the Chapter sanctioned and ready for Imperial use. From that moment, the surviving Blood Angel had been told his penitent crusade was worth nought and he was now the Master of this new Chapter. Their creation had been a vermillion level breach of Imperial law and he was a crusading knight no matter what the Inquisitor said, so naturally, the Knights Vermillion were formed. This Blood Angel, the first Uron Malefictus in a long line of the same name led the Chapter into the stars to find the blasted and sparse Athena system deep in the star clusters dubbed the Dominion of Storms.

The Chapter Master decided after those long months sailing the Imperial lines of the Warp that the First and Second companies would return home to Armacia, their fortress world orbiting the Athenian star. Yet first, he must stay true to his word and return to Lexmar Prime and inquire as to the health and state of the population. It would come to grieve the Chapter Master upon his return to the Lexmar system to discover the planet once more rooted firmly in the seat of heresy. It's cities a flame, its populace turned upon one another again and vile, gibbering creatures capering the surface, summoned into being by hidden cults dedicated to the ruinous powers beneath the hives. Not for the first time Uron cursed the name of Luxor and the power of psykers as he ordered the battle fortress to lay waste to the planet below. Gigantic mass reactive shells slammed into the planets crust, breaking its shell and spilling the worlds molten life blood. Searing lances of energy set the very air on fire, scouring deep craters in the earth, leaving nothing alive. The assault continued until the seas had boiled, the towering cities were levelled and not even germ life flourished on the surface. Uron despaired at the loss of life. Templari Chaplain Grakar bared his teeth in a satisfied grin as he watched the planet burn from the bridge of the Dominator.


	19. Chapter 19

19

Sergeant Haethe snarled as he rammed his fist forward, crushing the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet into the slavering yellow fanged maw before him. The beast reeled backwards with a trumpeting bellow. He thrust his other hand forward and barked off two rounds from his bolt pistol, bursting the Orks head like ripe fruit. All around him the men of the 8th and a contingent of the 10th pummelled into the greenskin menace aboard the free booters own ship. The Tau had been suffering under the suffocating press of Ork and so had driven them by any means necessary into the nearest Imperial occupied system that wasn't Ultramar. The Ork flotilla had pushed into the system and engaged the Spear of Athena before the home fleet could muster. The mighty strike cruiser had been gutted and destroyed, her souls condemned and left to tumble through the void as the battle raged on around her. Sister ship to the Spear, the Errant, pushed away from its mooring station above the second planet in the system packed full to the bulk heads with warriors of the Astartes and men of the 130th.

The Errant engaged.

Haethe curled his fingers around the hilt of chainblade, ceramite clacking together as he wrenched the brutal weapon from its hip sheathe. He pushed back the second Ork before him with a punishing barrage from his pistol before flipping off the safety guard on his blade and clutching the rotor peddle. The machine roared into life, razor edge teeth becoming a whirring blur as he stepped back into the press of bodies in the crude docking bay.

Chunks of meat and a sheet of watery ichor sprayed up his front, filling his fanged mouth with a bitter acidic taste. He laughed, the sound short and lost beneath the grunts and gunfire. He rammed the tip of the chainsword into the gut of the Ork before him, churning out its innards and ramming the barrel of his bolt pistol into the face of another, shattering its teeth and blasting out its skull in a clap of firepower. The blood tasted good.

Beside him Lord Valoran, Knight-Captain of the Tenth, spun his power sword in punishing arcs. The blade, glowing white hot and as bright as a star, carved limbs from greenskins all around him. His chain clad armour was heavy with gore, his thick adamantine scale cloak following in his wake like a star trail, his plumed helmet forming a rallying point for the men of the invading forces. The air was filled with a terrible, chaotic sound. The screaming of men, the bark of bolters, the snap and whine of lasguns, the rattle and chatter of Ork weaponry. The grunts and snarls, shouts and cries and above all, only privy unto the Astartes, was the sound of the blood. Rushing and pumping, flooding and loud, it called to the curse within them, luring their thirst to the fore.

Valoran brought his helmet slamming forward into the Nobs face, cracking its tusks and blinding it on the left side. His own face collided with the combat screen inside his helm, the green glow flickering and several of the mini screens fading out of synch, he could feel and taste blood trickling from his nose. The move had been reckless but his blade had been trapped by the body of another greenskin, so he used his head, literally. The brute staggered forward once more, bellowing flecks of slimey blood into Valorans face plate. Valoran roared back and levelled his long blade, the white sheen sending tendrils of energy snapping around him. They charged each other in the press of bodies.

Private Hesiod and the thirty troopers left to his command provided support fire for the towering warriors of the Knights. Arrayed in clusters of five men, with autogun and lasrifle they scythed down gretchin creatures and lesser Orks. Filling their heads with Imperial death until their tiny brains registered the punishment. Hesiod worked the trigger of the bolter he'd obtained back on Presae and sent screaming rockets into whatever chest or head he sighted along the weapon. The men and women of the 130th, those not still planet side, had adopted Hesiod as their acting officer and it scared him, probably more so than the fact not one hour after retreating from the surface of the planet he was engaged in boarding actions against the Ork ship. The Thunderhawks had split, the gunship bearing the Scouts and Sergeant Tiberius and the item they carried had veered off away from the pitched battle in space, the one carrying them and Sergeant Haethe's squad banked to join the fleet of gunships disgorging from the mighty warships and speeding towards the Ork cruiser.

Valoran saw two icons flash orange, then red and settling on a thick grey in the top left of his visor. He snarled into his vox grille as he brought his blade shimmering down, cleaving the Nobs head in twain, the blade biting down into its chest and shearing its thick crude armour. He wrenched the blade backwards and stepped backwards, letting two Astartes behind him bearing combat blades and shields fill the breach and begin their assault on the enemy. He jabbed his vox bead.

++Brother Tybalt! What is your status? Have you secured your objective?"++

In the vast bowels of the ship, beneath the layers of machinery and metal that separated the battle above from the gritty corridors of the Orkish engine bays, Knight-Captain Tybalt brought the hissing structure of his power fist up into the Orks chin, obliterating its face with the closed fist. His bionics whirred and clicked as he focused upon the huge bank of computers ahead of him in the corridor, his right eye a gleaming red lens set into the polished chrome of his face. He snarled an order to his men around him and three of the ten Astartes thundered their jump packs into life, searing molten patches of decking as they were born aloft on twin trails of fire. Bursts of vivid green plasma popped Ork mechanics, sending their now flaming corpses to splash along the decking. Tybalt pulled his fist back, locking the talon fingers into position, the glare of the power field reflected from his half face. He barged forward, slamming one greenskin against the vast rumbling turbine beside him, crushing its chest with his combat shield, his fist pulverised the groin of the Ork lunging at him. His men either side of him hacked into the seething mass of Orks with chain blades and power weapons, each one keeping his shield consciously protecting the teleport beacon upon their belts.

Three of Tybalts squad crashed back onto the decking, buckling the metal beneath and sending greenskins tumbling. The first to land embedded his axe into the leering face of the largest Ork mechanic, splitting the creature almost in two. His brothers engaged in close melee with the towering brutes in crude piston powered suits of armour, their claws clashing and parried by Astartes blades. Arias hauled his arm back, releasing his axe from the corpse and slamming it sideways into the gut of a Mega Nob, shearing its innards out in a spout of organs. He rammed his plasma pistol upwards into its jagged helm and let the poisonous green coils discharge their deadly load. The Nob crumpled, aflame. Arias rammed his pistol against his thigh, letting the magnetic plates lock together, he clutched his axe as his brothers protected him. His free gauntlet found the thick cylinder at his hip. He pulled the object free and twisted the activation lever then slammed it down onto the massive control centre for the Ork engines. The melta bomb began to tick over as Arias confirmed their objective to the Knight-Captain. Tybalt dealt the Mega Nob before him a brutal uppercut, devastating its head and shoulders before he responded to Knight-Captain Valoran. He sent another coded vox and twisted a dial upon the teleport beacon on his hip. He ordered the rest of his men to comply and five moments later they disappeared in a crack of purple energy.

Valoran grinned savagely beneath his helm as he brought his blade arcing down above the shields of his brothers, shearing the snout and jaw off the first Ork he saw. He heard the crump of detonations beneath his feet and relished in the secondary explosions that gutted the ship. The vast turbines powering the cruiser stuttered and died, washing the lower decks with searing blasts of flame. Every Ork in the bottom of the ship perished as the ship floundered in space. Valoran stepped back, ordering his brothers to form a shield wall across the wide corridor. The sound of ceramite clacking together echoed above the roar of the Orkish wave. Valoran deactivated his sword, the white hot glow evaporating to reveal an inscribed blade, free of gore. He laid the weapon against his shoulder and tapped his vox bead.

++Brother Gyr, you may release our brothers, engines have been pacified and we are withdrawing back to our extraction point. May the Emperor guide their souls.++

He shut of the link and ordered the forces underneath him to withdraw back into the gunships, the brothers of the Eights forming a steady line of blade and shield that the Orks broke themselves upon. The Thunderhawks released from the hull of the cruiser spread away from the vessel, leaving areas of the ship unpressurised, greenskins writhing and dying in space as they were sucked through the breaching holes. All but two of the Thunderhawks returned back towards the Errant and the rest of the Knights Vermillion fleet, those that stayed behind finally released their troop holds into the confines of the Ork ship. Templar Gyr, terrifying in his baroque suit of terminator armour, skull faced and snarling advanced amongst a tide of black clad warriors. Each warrior bore a skull painted upon his helm, his hands bearing no weapons except vicious talons built into each gauntlet. The Chaplain of the Templari led the hallowed Death Company on a campaign of butchery within the innards of the enemy ship. They would not stop till every Ork had perished, the corridors awash with blood and death.


	20. Chapter 20

20

The Thunderhawk banked away from the Errant, arcing wide to avoid any stray laser shot or ballistic flung from the battle far behind them. The giant strike cruiser ghosted into the battle on its plasma drives, prow lances stabbing out to disintergrate an Ork vessel. Thunderbolt squadrons deployed from landing bays along its flanks and a vicious dog fight commenced in the open space between the giant ships. The Thunderhawks pilot waited for the magos to annoit a console before punching a code through the runic device before him. He set the formiddable gunship on its course and eased back into his harness. The third occupant of the cockpit was not part of the flight deck and he bowed in deference to the pilot and offered his thanks before disembarking the command pulpit and taking the short ladder down to the main body of the ship.

Sergeant Tiberius curled his ceramite clad fingers into a fist, the small clacking sound lost amongst the roar of the power house engines. He grit his teeth at his tactical display, the interior of the ship over laid with a green tint, thermal displays and a range finder. His read out reminded him that being crippled of body is better than being corrupt of mind. He took a silent moment to contemplate that small creed before giving a gruff snort. He pressed on into the troop hold, thumbing an entry rune on the door before him, which hissed open with a puff of coolant fumes. He crossed the threshold and took stock of the image presented to him. The old and battered crate containing the artefact was maglocked to the deck, two of his scouts guarding it silently. On the opposite side, his favourite, young Scaran, had been hoisted and clamped to one of the troop benches where he thrashed at his bindings. He snarled into the room, eyes roving and teeth sticky with the drying blood of the dead Eldar. The scount opposite him, Gellus, watched his brother with cold eyes.

Tiberius crossed to the restless scion and knelt before him, servos whining as they compensated for the weight shift in the artificial gravity. He studied the scouts face from inside his helmet, noting the torn and shredded gums where the youths fangs had errupted in size. The screeching, snarling visage of rage snapped barely an inch from Tiberius' visor. The mouth desperately seeking what was beneath, to rend and tear. Tiberius lowered a hand to the side of his armour, unclamping the bolter pistol that was held there. He slid it from its holding and lifted the stocky weapon, pushing the cold barrel against the youths forehead. The cold metal made a thud as it connected with the scouts skull. Tiberius started intently, watching, judging. The red eyes with sunbursts of gold and cruel slashes of black, stared back into his. It was there, beneath the vision of savagery that the Sergeant saw the gleam of terror, the discord of the helpless. He decided not to squeeze the trigger, instead he stood, half turned then backhanded the youth into unconciousness.

He turned to the scout who sat watching the exchange. He holstered the pistol and gestured to the slouched Scaran.

++ He is no longer your brother, Squire Gellus. He has transcended to a place we do not embrace. He is now the charge of the Templarii and will be given unto their hands. His fate is in the hands of Blessed Sanguinius. May the Emperor have mercy upon his young soul. ++

Tiberius turned away, casting his long shadow across the face of Squire Gellus. The scout, sat with his hands upon his knee's, hadn't removed his intense glare from his brother scout. He stared, unmoving, hardly breathing. He barely even blinked. For inside him, something coiled and squirmed and writhed. Something could feel the rage boiling inside his brother. Something wanted to wake up and be free to rend and maim and kill. He swallowed a mouthful of thick spit, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. His fingers moved from his knee and found the hilt of his combat knife, playing across in the inlaid skull upon the pommel. It brought him reasurance. He lowered his gaze from his brother and drew the blade, placing it flat down upon his outstretched palm. The blade was long, almost a foot and a half of folded steel sharp enough to almost split an enemy on the molecular level. It could when the activation stud below the small hand guard was pushed, sending a shock of energy through the hidden relays within the steel and vibrating the edge of the knife beyond even the ability of a Space Marine to track. Then he lifted his eyes and stared into the ones staring at him. Red, black and gold. Those eyes looked into his soul and there they discovered a kinship. Scaran began to thrash against his harness once more.


	21. Chapter 21

21

Indrik sat for long hours pondering the current state of affairs upon the surface of Athena. The planet was crumbling around them, the dust storms more fierce than ever, the religious war between those who manned the bastion walls and those who dwelt in the mountains and sands seemed to be coming to a monumental clashing point. Exposure was the real killer though and with an Ork swarm so close to the Knights primary recruiting world, the future was on the tip of a knife, ready to fall either way and be cut to ribbons. The Templarii Chaplain tapped his finger tips upon the dark desk before him. The Chapter was in a sorry state, barely even worthy of the name. For all their granduer and flamboyancy, the Knights Vermillion were dying. The gene-seed was flawed and becoming ever more unstable as the generations passed. The older marines held control over their thirst and rarely did they succomb to fits of supernatural rage, but the young? Those newly inducted into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes? The thirst was nigh on unquenchable and the Folly would soon be full to bursting with rage-blind brutes.

He moved his armoured finger tip back and forth, the talon tip shaving into the gnarled wood. He scratched as he thought, letting his mind toil with the burden of enlightenment and politics. He was unaware of what his image his finger began to form in the wood, instead his attentions were inwards, settling on the very worrying fact that the Chapter was run via a political hierarchy in the absence of the 1st Company and their venerable Master. It had narrowed down to himself, Lord Judaiz of the Sentinel brothers and Forge Master Ardakas. Officially, command fell to Lord Templar Alabaster but he stayed willfully ignorant of the decisions made, only caring enough to turn his attention to the workings of the Chapter when the other three had come to an agreement. Uron Malefictus had been gone for the past century, leaving the care of the Chapter to Athena. Armacia was but a silent guardian, a skeleton crew of Marines and Techpriests over saw the formidable fortress close to the sun. Indrik had no inclination of where the 1st and 2nd companies were, Uron had announced a Crusade one feast day and embarked upon the Dominator with fully half the Chapters strength. Indrik knew it was to be as far away from the political squabbling as possible. The man, this Marine, this Master of theirs had seen too much in his long life and sought the abyss of death in the Emperors service. Their system was small, shut off and silent to the rest of the Imperium save Administratum contact every fifty years to levy a tithe from whatever minerals the Mechanicum mined upon Presae.

The Knights were standing on the brink of disaster, a dark maw opening the ground before them, sucking them down one by one into the horror that awaits in the dark. Dissent, division and now possesion. Malefictus should be here. Not galavanting across the stars pretending to be one of the Founding Chapters. He should be here, to see to the state of the Chapter, to see how low it had fallen. It would not be long before the ever watchful eye of the Imperium turned inwards from the Crusades on the Eastern front and landed firmly upon the tiny system of Athena. What then, could happen to his brothers? To his Chapter, his family? He did not know and dread to think how the eyes of those on Holy Terra would condemn him. He blinked and gazed down at the symbol carved upon the desk. He had clarity of purpose then, in that moment and stood, the stone chair grinding back across the metal decking beneath his feet. The black armoured figure strode from his chambers, leaving a resplendant aquilla bright on the dark wood.

'Speak.'

The Lord Templar's voice growled out from his admantine teeth. The huge terminator chaplain stood gazing at the arched window of stained glass in the Reclusiam. The giant winged form of Sanguinius held aloft by the golden light of the Emperor above a lake of blood. Below it was the broken blade of the first Uron, the Blood Angel who provided to seed of their creation and led them to freedom from religious control. The power blade, blade and warped was suspended via anti-grav studs upon the stone altar beneath it, giving the illusion of the blade levitating beneath Sanguinius. Lord Alabaster was often found here, gazing at the sword with his ruby bionics. One could only guess what assailed the mind within that metal frame.

'My lord, I have meditated upon our currect predicament and believe I have come to a solid course of action.'

Alabaster cocked his head, turning his giant frame to face the smaller Chaplain.

'Pray tell me, Brother Indrik, your revelation under His guidance.'

The younger Templari knelt before his superior, watching as the fearsome mechanical visage of Alabaster blotted out the broken blade of their Chapter and the effigy of their Primarch superior. The ruby eyes became two pits of inferno in the darkness of shadow. The candle light flickered as a door ghosted open and closed deep in the shadows of the vault, a robed supplicant of the Chapter baring a shrouded item towards the pair of Templar chaplains.

'With the power invested in me by the Templarii order of Brethren and by extension the Ecclisarchy, my misguided light has become true. I have been afforded the clarity of vision to see there is only one course of action concerning the possesion of our most Beloved Typhot. This, is my solution.'

With a sweeping gesture of his hand, the supplicant pulled the shroud from the item they carried with a flourish, revealing an ancient weapon. The gleam of the barrel was inscribed with litanies and prayer, the muzzle was wrought of bronze into the shape of a screaming eagle's beak. Fluted wings arched to contain the bulky circular canister that powered the formidable gun.

'I ask for sanction to use the Touch of Uron to cleanse our Chapter of taint. It should lay with us, the protectors of our Brethren. This is not the domain of the Sentinel Order. Be he Psyker, Typhot is still our brother, most revered. He should be afforded a clean death in light of his duties these past centuries.'

The silence that lasted was palpable, it was pregnant. Indrik dared not raise his gaze into the pits of hell that regarded him and his proposal. He sowed his own dissent with his words against their Sentinel brethren, yet it was to counter the moves made by Lord Judaiz in his game of power. Indrik would not let the Chapter become the property of bueracratic machination. They were Space Marines, His Angels of Death, they would not become lesser men of the Imperium prone to squabbles of ownership. He would die before he let it happen.

'It is sanctioned. Go forth and touch our brother and release him to the Emperors forgiving love.'

The giant turned away, back to the broken blade. Indrik stood and bowed low in supplication to the shrine and its keeper before accepting the offered relic from the servant. He flicked the activation stud to prime the weapons ignition system and felt a shudder of reverence pass through him as the ancient weapon hummed into life, status lights blinking. He bowed once more to the shrine before removing himself from its sanctity and stalking the corridors of the Fortress ship. Down he went, ever down, passing brothers who knelt to him, genuflecting towards the powerful weapon he carried within his taloned hands. The Templar stalked the arched hallways, each step accompanied by chanted words, the servant dashing oils upon the chaplain and his weapon, blessing their actions in His name.

He came, eventually, to the stone chamber. He stretched out his hand, allowing the servant to remove his gauntlet with the proper ritual. He extended his now naked hand into the gene cogitator built into the stone wall and allowed it to extract a drop of his blood. A chime accompained a green flashing light and the stone door began to grumble and grind out of view to reveal the darkness within. He stepped over the threshold, bidding the servant stay outside of the protective runes. The Chaplain was greeted with the icy touch he had endured before, crystals began to form upon his black armour. The two Sentinel brothers lifted their double handed power blades and removed themselves from their posts beside the suspended sarcophygus. He nodded his head in respect to them, despite their high status, he still held authority here. The chained giant before him lay silent in the cold, the alien runes carved into the ceramite were dull, no warp energy played across them. The vox unit crackled once, barely a whisper of static before one word, garbled and exhausted hissed out.

++ ...please...++

Indrik bowed low, clutching the metla gun to his broad armoured chest. He stood, straighter than he had done in many a long years and summoned all the power of his voice.

'Honoured Brother Typhot, he of many victories. He of many glorious deeds and glorious actions. He who stood firm where others have fallen, he who brought fire and righteous fury upon the Emperors enemies, refusing to accept death, I salute you. I honour you. I hold you in all reverence and I condemn you to die.'

He thumbed the trigger guard up, braced his armour shot feet and raised the gun high. With a whisper prayer he squeezed the trigger and the icy cold was replaced with incinerating heat. The shimmering haze of radiation shot forward in an intense beam, striking the surface of the armoured coffin, bubbling the armour. He squeezed the trigger again, the armour plating running like molten slag, dripping to hiss and dance across the sigil strewn floor. He squeezed the trigger again and again, carrying out the execution with unmoving conviction. Brother Typhot had been possesed, rendering him unto the Heretics nature, but he would die, not as a heretic, but as a hero of the Chapter. Remembered for his deeds, not his disgrace.

When it was done, all that remained was a hollow shell, cored and left open to the heat and moisture that filled the air. Indrik had grit his fangs when the writihing dessicated body of Typhot had been revealed, suspended within by fluids and a network of machinery. All had flashed away to gas under the punishment of the melta beam. No longer did his Chapter brother suffer. Indrik bowed low once more before turning from the stone chamber and back into the fortress. He knew he was doing the Emperors work and taking the first steps to cleansing the Chapter of it's growing taint but deep down, in the recesses of his mind where the darkness dwelt, he questioned. He questioned because despite this being the correct course of action, it did not feel right.


End file.
